


The Fog

by yeaka



Series: A Honeycomb Tree [13]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Collars, Comeplay, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Dystopia, Half-Mirrorverse, Handcuffs, Leashes, M/M, Madness, Oral Sex, PWP, Pon Farr, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Spanking, Submission, Temporary Slavery, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1381339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simply Spock’s pon farr, as per the Terran Empire’s customs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Virus

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For a brief moment, the controls spin beneath his eyes. Spock’s face tightens, teeth grit together. He steadies himself, concentrates thoroughly, and watches the familiar fluorescent buttons swim back into focus. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but it’s the most intense.

It’s undeniable.

His Time is approaching. He knows as much, but facing it is an entirely different matter. It was easier to deny the possibility, delude himself into thinking he still had years to go, that maybe this would be something else. He would visit sickbay, but, as a Vulcan citizen of the Empire, his required monthly physical is near enough as it is. 

...And he doesn’t particularly want to hear the results. 

Illogical. He will need to know what he is dealing with. He lowers himself back into his chair, arms retreating from behind his back to steady himself along his panel. He will need to mentally prepare himself, even if it’s...

If it’s...

A quick flurry of panic seizes Spock’s chest, and he makes an audible gasp, clenching tight a moment later. No. No, that won’t help. He crushes it down with a tight fist of self-control and long established mental discipline, re-throwing himself into his work and ignoring such... problems.

* * *

He should not eat in the messhall. He knows it, but still he finds himself succumbing to his spiking instincts, to the uncharacteristic need to be around others. He takes his tray from the Synthesizer and sniffs at the air, picking up the subtle, mingling scents of various species and genders. He forces himself to take a seat in the far corner, alone, though he still winds up facing one side of the room. 

He lifts his fork to his mouth, barely tasting the flavourless salad as Ensign Chekov laughs only a few meters away. His young, Slavic features light with the glow of human happiness, and the way he arches back in his chair highlights his supple, lithe figure. Spock’s lackluster imagination jumps to imagining that eager body beneath his, and he closes his eyes as his hormones salivate over the idea of ravaging the ships barely-legal navigator. Chekov would never last under the Vulcan fever. He would break in two, beg and cry sweet, pretty tears while Spock drove into his soft body again and again...

Shivering, Spock snaps his eyes open and demands that he eats. No. _No_. He will not give in. There are rumours... vague suggestions... perhaps... perhaps he can alleviate the need through mediation. He will meditate tonight. Until these unsavoury urges desist, he will do nothing else in the times he is not serving his duties or regenerating his body. Lieutenant Sulu crosses his vision, coming to bend over Chekov’s table. 

Lieutenant Sulu is a fitting specimen, fully trained in many fighting techniques—a worthy opponent. He, perhaps, could withstand Spock’s intensity. He would certainly look _delectable_ doing so, and as he flicks his ebony hair back, his golden shirt stretches across his toned chest, and Spock’s fingers twist so far around his spoon that they dig back into his palm, nearly hard enough to draw blood. Arm shaking, he lowers his hand to the table. He shouldn’t have come here. 

Perhaps he should’ve gone for a private lunch with Jim, as he so often does. He could stroll right into the captain’s quarters—something no one else aboard could boast—and he could toss his plate aside and pin Jim to the wall, shove his leg right between Jim’s thighs and devour Jim’s mouth. Jim. _Jim_. Jim would kiss him back, he knows it, would rut into him, would cling to his shoulders, would tell him he’s the most valuable first officer any Terran could hope for and nothing could ever, _ever_ keep them apart, and then Jim would order Spock to his knees, and Spock would present himself for his captain, would revel in his captain’s perfect body as his loyalty was rewarded in wild, mind-blowing sex that would leave Spock shivering and keening for days, so eager for his _t’hy’la’s_ touch that he would go mad if not permitted to stay in Jim’s bed...

Growling fiercely, Spock nearly doubles over the table, the swell of unadulterated _lust_ too difficult to hold—the frenzy takes over and blurs his senses. He isn’t equipped for this, doesn’t know how to handle such a loss of control. He knocks his tray aside in the process, and he can feel too many sets of eyes on him. He gulps and tries to straighten. Control. Control. He is a Vulcan. He will not...

He stands suddenly and marches from the hall, salad forgotten. His Time is nearing; it’s undeniable. He’ll meditate.

* * *

He is fortunate, he knows, to have a Terran doctor that is kind enough to allow him private inspections. He knows that others of his kind, particularly young Vulcans of his age, facing their first time, are paraded around and prodded in the center of their sickbays. But Spock sits in the back of Dr. McCoy’s private office, trying desperately not to convulse with the tremours wracking his body. 

He offers no explanation. He can see on Dr. McCoy’s face that his plight is obvious, but he can’t bear to speak of it. It’s not something that Vulcans enjoy discussing with outsiders, however much of a spectacle the Terran Empire has turned it into. Dr. McCoy silently runs a tricorder over his body and strips his shirt away, poking and touching and eventually sitting back to sigh. 

“Spock,” the doctor starts. Given their somewhat tepid relationship, Spock half expects Dr. McCoy to smirk or laugh, but he merely shakes his head, looking genuinely sorry. “You must know...”

“I know,” Spock says tersely. “And I do not wish to discuss it.” It’s difficult to keep his voice as level as it usually is, to take out the bite. Dr. McCoy always makes him want to _bite_. He irrationally thinks that he could throw Dr. McCoy across the room right now, get it all over with, fuck himself on Dr. McCoy’s big cock—he knows it must be big; he can tell from the way Dr. McCoy walks and talks and the ever-prominent bulge in his pants during these physicals—and, perhaps, if Spock submit himself, if he was good, it would never need to be reported. He could alleviate the entire issue. He wouldn’t have to be shuttled back. Dr. McCoy would not be a cruel master, Spock thinks, and he is ruggedly handsome, smells raw and masculine, has such skilled hands, has a gravel-silk voice that ripples over Spock’s skin like sex itself...

Spock forces himself to look at the far wall. No. _No._ He shudders and grapples for the mental wall he needs to keep this away, ignoring the pair of blue eyes that have haunted his mind all day. Dr. McCoy could fuck him good and hard, but Jim... Jim would _make love_ to him, and he knows he could be good for Jim; he could do what is necessary to survive one’s time and move on with one’s life... and maybe... maybe he could come back...

“Spock,” Dr. McCoy snaps, and Spock’s jerked back down to reality. “Here.” Dr. McCoy pulls a little bottle out of the top drawer of the shelves lining one wall, and he presses it into Spock’s hand. Spock’s fingers wrap around it, catching on Dr. McCoy’s thicker, rougher ones. “This should help with the symptoms a bit.” For now. Dr. McCoy’s voice is strong but full of care.

Spock nods, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes. He doesn’t trust himself to. For a Vulcan, this kind of madness, even the early stages, is more horrible than he can explain. His throat is dry when he asks, “Am I dismissed?”

“Yeah.” It seems like Dr. McCoy is going to say more, but he doesn’t. There isn’t anything more to say; Spock’s days are simply numbered.

* * *

He gets absolutely no sleep. He lies in bed, forcing his hands to stay up above the blanket and trying _so very hard_ to meditate, just like his father taught him. He wonders vaguely how his father survived the first ritual, then shivers and decides he doesn’t want to know. 

He considers telling Jim. Begging Jim. The word wouldn’t even normally occur to him, but his blood is feverish and desperate. He thinks he knows who will buy him. If T’Pring has already passed her first time, she would surely revel in having Spock to break, after he left her on Vulcan and the ideals she expected of him that he never agreed to. ...Or perhaps Stonn will, if he has also passed; their rivalry ran deep for a time. Some Vulcans are purchased by their fathers in an attempt at protection, and the thought of seeing Sarek like this is even more distressing than the first two. Or, perhaps, it will be an Orion or a Klingon; they thoroughly enjoy these things. Spock burrows deeper into his pillows and mattress, wondering if, should he manage to miraculously make it through, Jim will take him back on the Enterprise. Even if just as a yeoman, it would be worth it. He could start again. In his present state of mind, being Jim’s yeoman sounds perfectly acceptable. 

By the time it’s time to get ready for his shift, he hasn’t slept at all. He hasn’t managed to meditate. He’s felt no peace. He showers quickly and dresses and fights to suppress his shaking and wonders again, and then again, if he should simply beg his captain to smuggle him away. 

If he died in space, locked in a jettisoned pod, it would be less painful. 

He walks to the bridge stiffly and ignores everyone he passes, returning no greetings. When the glass partition parts to allow him bridge access, Jim, for once, is already there. 

Lounging in his chair like some beautiful god, Jim looks over his shoulder and informs his passing first officer, “We’re headed for Vulcan.” Spock’s head snaps around. Jim’s frowning. 

He doesn’t know if Jim knows. How much Terrans usually know, besides the doctors who monitor their physicals and reroute them. If Jim is interested in the rituals, he may have looked into it, he may know. Spock is, at least, grateful that the captain doesn’t announce his shame. Just a simple ‘headed for Vulcan.’ As though it’s perfectly normal, could be anything; Spock’s simply informed as a courtesy. Spock nods his head and forces himself to keep walking. He thinks he can feel Jim’s eyes following him, but as he possesses no way of seeing behind him, he dismisses the thought as irrational. 

He wants to turn back around, rush and climb into his captain’s lap, curl up to Jim and gush everything. He knows, however foolish trust might be in the Empire, that Jim would not judge him, would not hurt him. Even if Jim didn’t help Spock escape the ritual, which he surely would, he would stroke Spock soothingly and tell Spock that everything would be alright. A human lie, but a comfort nonetheless. He sits at his station and turns to face his console, trying to think of other things: dry math, listless science, anything that doesn’t make him feel as inexplicably warm as _Jim_ does.

He has no hope. He knows that. He sucks in a breath and tries, at least, to be useful at his job until the inevitable end rolls up to meet him.

* * *

He grows steadily worse, and he’s alleviated from his duties. At first, the rage boils in his chest, and he wants to protest, wants to shout his right to serve, but he forces himself to bite it back—he’ll never manage on the bridge. He’ll break down into a mess and make a spectacle. No. It would be wiser, more logical, to accept his flaws and meditate in his quarters until they reach Vulcan, until his life invariably changes. 

He’s cross-legged on his bed when his console beeps, and he rises off the mattress, nearly stalking towards the terminal. He sits crispy down in his seat and clasps his hands together on the desk, simply to stop them from shaking. He’s looking at Jim’s concerned, handsome face, bright eyes so tempting that Spock finds himself unable to speak. 

Jim says for him, “Spock.”

Spock manages a tight, “Captain.”

“I...” Jim cuts off, looking aside and shaking his head. His distress is obvious, though Spock is the one fighting not to tear his own quarters apart. “You’re aware of the... uh... the _pon farr_ rituals in the Empire?” Spock, at first, says nothing. 

Of course Spock is aware. Every Vulcan is aware. It’s why he’s subjected to periodic physicals the rest of the crew isn’t, why his ship is ready to deviate back to Vulcan whenever necessary, why he is never allowed to be a true captain or admiral or anything above commander. He understands, of course. It’s a precaution. Like this, he’s little more than an animal. He needs... he needs to be _tamed_. He deserves it. He sucks in a breath. 

He looks at Jim, _Jim_ , and he almost breaks. Somehow, he’d thought... he’d deluded himself... perhaps somehow...

He wonders vaguely if they will still have a chance, sometime in the future, when Spock is thoroughly ruined and spoiled and Jim is still pure and wonderful. He tells himself they will; Jim is fair. ...But... for that... Spock needs to pass a test that he’s not sure he can. 

He’s already wild and crazed and can hardly convince himself to sit perfectly still, let alone bow to another and lick some cruel master’s boots. He shuts his eyes and lowers his head, and Jim whispers through the terminal, voice breaking, “Spock...”

Spock ends the transmission. The screen flickers blank. He stands and marches back to his bed, sitting down to meditate, knowing that it is no use, and it cannot, will not save him.


	2. Processing

Beaming down to the planet is an all-together humiliating affair.

Dr. McCoy comes to escort him to the transporter room, smelling a little unwashed and looking unusually scruffy and arousing every cell in Spock’s rapidly decaying body. Dr. McCoy, as per a wise custom, injects a hypospray into Spock’s neck that leaves him docile enough to at least walk down the halls without attacking anyone. He can’t remember from what he’s read and the little he’s been told if his attending physician will accompany him the entire way or not. Dr. McCoy is not his mate, but he’d be a far better choice than whatever is waiting for Spock on his own planet. 

When they reach the transporter room, Dr. McCoy doesn’t climb onto the platform. Jim isn’t there waiting for him, like he might’ve hoped, but he knows it’s for the best, and Jim probably knows that too. If Jim were there, it would be much harder, even through the rapidly wearing-off sedative, to pry Spock away. 

The familiar glow encases him, and his particles are ripped asunder, spliced back together in a generic stone hall. He has no expectations, and he’s too dizzy between the drugs and his own unstable hormones to take in much. He’s greeted and read his own name, scanned and confirmed. He’s shoved towards a wall lined with other Vulcans—other Vulcans that smell like they’re _in heat_ , that make Spock struggle to control himself, and then, when they’ve all been processed, he’s pushed in a thin line down a dark hallway. The sedative’s heavier than he thought: standard issue, he’s sure, and the walls all swim around him, his legs fighting to hold him up. He smells something, someone familiar—Stonn? It might be Stonn. One less candidate to buy him, then. Perhaps if he bursts through the line now, pins Stonn to the wall and alleviates his need—

But no, the need isn’t what will condemn him. There are channels for this. He gulps. He feels heady. He’s pushed into a small room, cold and sterile and little more than a cell, with superficial dressings that do nothing to reassure him. For a minute, he stands still, listening to the door sliding shut behind him. He’s left alone. He can smell the others, locked in adjacent cells. There’s a small enclosure to the side—a bathroom—a Synthesizer mounted on the wall, and a cot done up like a proper bed. Spock schools his breathing. It’s for the best. He can’t assault anyone here.

Spock marches over and rips the pillow to shreds, tossing the resulting fuzz across the room and barely manages to restrain himself from tearing into the mattress. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be left to wait, but every minute is _torture_. Illogical. The longer they make him wait, the more the madness seizes him, the less likely he will be to pass the test he _must_ pass to return to his ship—to his... to his...

He howls like a wild le-matya, but can hear nothing back; his prison is soundproof. He staggers in place, and the sedative takes hold.

* * *

Drugged from the water supply and weak from lack of food, Spock receives a ruling Terran visitor. He sits on the edge of his ‘bed’ and does his best to listen, pointed ears peeled, though it’s become difficult to form sentences even in his own head, not from those drugs but his own body’s destabilizing chemistry. 

The Terran comes with guards—Vulcans that have passed, that are tame. Not a danger to others. The Terran asks him if he understands how his life will now unfold, and Spock manages a cracking, “Yes.”

“You will be auctioned. You will go with whoever buys you; it is your duty to the Empire.” Spock nods, of course; the proceeds filter into the Terran military. He knows this. But the Empire is what will keep him from killing himself and/or dragging others down with him. “If you prove yourself a danger to the Empire, you will be dealt with accordingly.” Put down? Kept locked up? He wants to shudder but doesn’t have enough control of his own body. “If you prove yourself an asset to the Empire, you will be reprocessed.” Jim. That’s all he hears, _Jim_ , if he can get through this, maybe he can return to his _life_ to some semblance of— “Stop.” The man’s voice is harsh and commanding. Spock knows his derailment has shown on his face, and he tries to blank his mind, the sedatives in his blood making it mildly easier. It’s _trying_ to help.

He doesn’t even know if Jim would have him back. He licks his lips. The Vulcan guard on his left smells very, very good. The human tells him, “You will now be fitted with the proper equipment. If you resist, you will be dealt with accordingly.” Agonized. He sees the collar emerge from the Terran’s hands—a self-activating device that will plunge him into utter anguish should he ignore its programming. Should he become violent, like his body screams to. He nods as stoically as he can. 

But when the device presses at the hollow of his throat, he realizes that he doesn’t want to go, he’d rather stay here, take one of these guards, maybe both, pull them down with him, rip away their clothes, fuck them hard and—

Spock surges to his feet, but they’re there to hold him, to pin him down, and they aren’t drugged, aren’t _weak_. He’s held against the mattress, snarling and snapping, as the collar’s fitted around him as though he’s an animal, a pet. It’s temporary. If he’s good. 

He can’t be _good_. He’s always been _bad_. Impure, dirty. Many full Vulcans don’t pass; what hope does he have? His control is lost. He can smell the musk of the Vulcan holding down his wrists, and he tries to bite at the man’s ear, but he can’t reach; he’s held too firmly. The collar clicks in place: sealed. Until the requirements are met. It sends a racing jolt down his spine that has him arching off the bed and shrieking in pain—it paralyses his body and swamps him in nothing but wild anguish. The sound of his own screams deafens him. He’s blinded, white-hot, and claws into the fabric that holds the small cot together. 

When the throbbing subsides, leaking into something dull and terrible instead of mind-numbingly all-consuming, he’s alone the in the room. He lies where he is, eyes so dilated that it’s difficult to focus. 

An hour later, he’s told to strip. He doesn’t listen. He’s agonized for an indeterminable amount of time, and then he begins to peel away his clothes, torn down to a basic need that says he won’t need them anyway. Doesn’t want them, _his body’s so hot._ Sound is blocked out, but smells are not. He sniffs at the air and thinks he can pick out Stonn, and he leans against the solid door between them and curls his fingers against it. Intellectually, what little of that is left, he knows that the other Vulcans will be just as mad. But he has half-human tendencies, and he touches himself while he humps the door, shameful and unable to care. He pretends his hand is Stonn’s, hopes against hope that they will be allowed to stay here, will prove themselves with each other, won’t have to go outside and be in... whatever auctions are like. He’s never been to one. He isn’t high enough to do so. T’Pring is. He thinks of being owned by her, and it makes him snarl and shake his head. He pictures Jim’s face, a fleeting smile for no reason, and he comes instantly. 

He slumps down and curls on the floor, guilty and pitiful and light-headed. The wall buzzes to signal that it’s released another controlled glass of drugged water. He couldn’t meditate if he wanted to. It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t save him.

* * *

Chaining him is only possible because whenever he resists, he’s agonized into obedience. His wrists are cuffed together, strung along to a Vulcan in front of him and one behind. He doesn’t know what to expect of his auction site, but at the moment, he’s far too gone to theorize. 

He’s lead down an empty hallway and off into a room, and it takes everything he has to keep walking, to not lunge on Stonn’s bare form ahead of him. Stonn’s grown well: perfectly shaped with a nice, taut ass, shifting under Spock’s hungry gaze as they walk. He knows it’s Stonn from the smell and the brief flash of face that glanced back at him, just once. His only solace is that the others are shaking just as badly. Unchained, _they could wreak such havoc_...

He isn’t lead outside to a primitive stage, as he might’ve once thought. He’s brought into a large, open room, metallic and cold, and pushed to his knees. He’s slow to comply, like many others, and the gravity on the handcuffs increases exponentially, jerking him down to the floor. His knees collide at a painful angle, and he snarls to conceal his hurt. Stonn and the Vulcan that was behind him are each less than a meter away. They’re sat down in a row, lined with guards and too-clothed officers that Spock can’t give a damn about. Before them is a row of desks and monitors and blinking cameras that Spock can’t bring himself to look past. A private auction, then. He is a first officer. That’s high, for a Vulcan. Maybe they’re considered premium stock. 

But then the descriptions, fading in and out of his throbbing head, reach his profile. A monotone voice reads out his statistics—his measurements, his weight, his typical life functions, his last measured strength and speed. Most of it is an amorphous cloud of information that doesn’t penetrate, but he hears, loud and clear, the descriptions of his mixed blood. How he is a half-breed. His starting price is lower than the others: he is impure. Weaker. Worth less. His nostrils flare and his jaw tightens. He longs to _prove_ that he’s more than the mutt they offhandedly call him, but that is exactly what he must not do. 

The descriptions run down the line; Stonn is worth nearly double what Spock is. Spock shivers as his mind conjures strained images of himself purchasing Stonn, of what he would do to his own slave. He knows the _pon farr_ is making him something he is not, but that spot of logic has no bearing. His fingers are digging tight into his palm. 

The descriptions end and the bidding begins. Sharp, toneless cries of numbers: computer relays. Spock is sold almost instantly. 

He’s shocked. He looks up, but the officers that sit behind the computer terminals have no use for him and don’t look back. They don’t know Spock, don’t care for him, simply take the bid of far more money than he’s worth and move on to a lengthy debate over the muscular form of a well-trained freight officer at the end, shaking so hard that he looks like he might pass out. The surprise quickly spikes into panic, and Spock, normally so disciplined, can’t fight it off. 

Even without his collar activated, he’s a haze of agony until he’s marched right back to his cell.

* * *

It isn’t long before they come to take him, but he’s long gone. He’s crazed and wild and attacks the minute the door opens, lunging with his hands held like claws. The collar instantly leaps to action, agonizing him over and over until he collapses, until he’s writhing on the floor and seeing only white and red: searing hot pain. He’s rearranged and chained further and bent into strange shapes, and though he thrashes, he knows he’s losing. 

He isn’t really _Spock_ anymore, just a mass of short-circuiting hormones that even Mr. Scott couldn’t wire back together. At one point, he begs for mercy: would rather die than endure. A human would pass out from the constant fury in his blood, but he _isn’t human_. He isn’t Vulcan. How can they put him through this. He cries that he isn’t Vulcan again and again, but the sound might just be garbled; his own screams have broken him. He’s not sure he’s saying anything at all. He shouldn’t be put through this. He should...

He should... 

He’s driven too-slowly unconscious. Then it’s just black.

* * *

Several times, his mind tentatively returns to the surface, finds reality too hard to accept, and settles back down again. 

Eventually, he can’t deny it anymore. He’s awake.

He’s the way he should be: the way he knew he would be. He’s blindfolded thoroughly: it’s so tight that he can’t even open his eyes to let in a dull crack of hope. There’s a bit in his mouth—something used for teething sehlats and Earth horses—and it holds his jaw sorely open, no room to make a sound. He can feel the collar still heavily around his neck, no doubt now tipped with the tag of his—hopefully temporary—master. He’s on his side, with his wrists and ankles bound firmly behind him. He struggles on sheer instinct, but, of course, it gets him nowhere. 

He tells himself he is _Vulcan_ , he is stronger than any cage can hold, but minutes later he remembers that these are just for Vulcans—for mad, powerful Vulcans in the height of their strength. He isn’t even that. His logic is... flawed. 

Gone. He’s mad with the fever, but he knows enough of the basics. They’ve been burned into him; he knew this day would come. 

He’s been sold. 

The taming will now begin. 

If, of course, it can be done. His master will try, and he _must_ attempt to comply. He’ll have been sold with the appropriate equipment. It’s a safety precaution for the Empire, he knows. If he’s unruly, unmanageable, _violently aggressive_ he’ll have proven himself as dangerous as this test can guard against: he’ll be put down, or, perhaps, left to serve an endless sentence.

But... if he’s tamed... and they will check; they will know; from this moment on, his mind will be later plucked and plundered—if he’s tamed, he will be allowed to continue serving the Empire. And perhaps, just perhaps...

He will be allowed to see _Jim._

Jim, Jim. He shouldn’t have thought that. Without his sight, his memories are too vivid. The silent room gives his senses nothing to cling to; the air is thick with his own arousal and the fervent desire to _mate_. He can only think of Jim’s beautiful, smiling face, guiding him along the corridor, to the bridge— _their bridge_ —down to a landing party, whatever, those strange adventures that have always _just been them_. Even outside of _pon farr_ , he knew, he always knew—how could he not? They’re always side-by-side. He never said anything; why was he so foolish? Maybe he didn’t want to take the chance of losing their connection, but he shouldn’t have been so cold, he was always so cold—the robot Jim teases him to be—but surely Jim knew.... They’ve melded so many times that their bond is permanent, always lingering, now drowned out by the fever and that makes Spock want to weep, but Vulcans do not cry. He’s twisting in his unbreakable bonds and inwardly sobbing for the man that makes him who he is. 

But he’ll be tamed for someone else. It makes him sick. He goes from wallowing in sorrow to awash with anger in a heartbeat. In his agitated state, he doesn’t want to let any man _tame_ him. He is not an animal. If he is, he is a wild le-matya and he is the one that must mate, that will mount his captor and fuck them until their senses are as shot as his, bite and mark and brand his buyer as his bitch... 

He will... 

He will...

Spock howls around his gag and rocks so hard that he rolls onto his stomach, which makes it easier to hump the ground as he runs through ravishing each individual member of his former crew in his mind. He comes back to Jim in between every single one, lingering over and over again to claim what is, in many ways, already _his._


	3. Trial (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Gotta be honest. I rewrote all my plans because everyone guessed my original plans and I didn’t want to be too obvious. ^^;; I am so sorry.

He’s wracked with tremours so violent that he doesn’t hear the door opening, just the footsteps that follow.

As soon as he does, Spock freezes, body grinding to an instant halt, heart stopping in his chest. The footsteps are in the other room, but Vulcans have excellent hearing. They’re coming closer. Spock’s chin jerks off the ground, nose rifling through the air—the one other sense he has left—and this can’t be correct. He can smell... he can smell his _mate_ , and he knows he must be mad, because he left his mate back on the Enterprise. But the air is thick with it, and it wafts closer with each heavy footfall—a gate he recognizes. Spock strains around the bit in his mouth, saliva already crusted down the side of his chin, but the only sounds he can make are muffled.

Jim. _Jim_.

He’s already come twice against the floor, and he humps it harder, rocking into the dried puddle of his own seed. The first time he came, it was to the image of fucking Sulu over the navigation console, while Chekov sucked his ass and McCoy watched, leaning up against the viewscreen with his own cock in his hand. The second time, Spock thought of just Jim, riding his cock in the captain’s chair, calling _Spock_ captain and wearing the rank of an ensign—Spock’s ensign—then Spock’s yeoman—then a kneeling, whimpering mess at Spock’s feet. Spock thinks of it now and screams in frustration, twisting vainly in his bonds and slamming his hard cock against the ground. 

He hears a sigh: a hurt, frail thing that stings. He can’t fathom niceties and weakness, not like this. The footsteps have stopped just ahead of him, and the smell is all around him. _Jim._ He wants Jim painted with his cum, and the heady scent of the air mingles that together for him. Hypersensitive without his sight, he hears something light on the ground next to him—knees? Someone kneeling. It can’t be Jim. The _pon farr_ ’s sent him insane. He growls, practically daring his new master to ruin his mirage.

Gentle hands, smooth, soft skin, brush through his hair, wrapping around the back of his head. Spock tenses in a heartbeat, hips even stilling. He... he thinks he recognizes those hands. No, he’s mad. He hears the light clink of the blindfold coming loose, and the material’s pulled from his face. Spock keeps his eyes shut, because he doesn’t want this dream to end. 

Maybe he can conquer this challenge with his eyes closed—pin this new person to the ground and fuck them hard and pretend they’re _Jim_ the entire time. Yes. _Yes_. But a quiet voice mumbles, “Spock... Spock, look at me.” And a familiar thumb brushes his cheek. 

He opens his eyes. 

He wants to cry. 

It can’t really be _Jim_. The madness has spread to his eyes, or twisted in his brain what they’ve seen, because his captain is kneeling before him, gently cupping his face. Jim looks devastated for reasons Spock can’t grasp—this is... this is _heaven_. It’s _Jim._ He wanted that so badly. But he never dared to hope. Jim pulls the bit from his mouth the same way, and Spock tests his jaw on instinct—it’s clenched and throbbing and covered in spit. His voice breaks, and he mutters, stilted, “Ca... ptain...”

“I’m sorry,” Jim mumbles, “I’m so sorry.” There’s nothing to be sorry about. Spock’s trembling the hardest he ever has. 

Then he lunges up. He doesn’t need the use of his hands, his legs, his knees tighten against the floor and he jerks his body upwards, even as Jim lunges back—Spock’s growling wildly, ready to conquer his prey. He dives for Jim and he’s wrenched back, nearly choking, the collar tight around his throat. He spins his head and sees a chain link leash attached from him to the wall—he hadn’t noticed it before. He’s in Jim’s quarters. A bracing unit’s been installed in the wall. The chain is taut. Spock whips back around and strains against it, unable to comprehend the idea that he _can’t have Jim._ Jim _bought him._ Nothing can stand in their way now. He leans towards Jim with everything he has, and the collar’s digging so tightly into his neck that he can’t breathe, it might draw blood, but he can’t, won’t stop—he has to reach Jim—

“Stop it,” Jim says, and Spock isn’t listening—just a little more. If only he had his arms. He pries fruitlessly at his bonds, face scrunched with the effort of defying everything. He’s making no progress, and he doesn’t care. Has to reach Jim. “Spock, stop it; that’s an order!” He can’t listen. He wants to breed Jim right now. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he can’t impregnate Jim, not like he’s supposed to, but he wants to try so desperately that it doesn’t matter. Jim is his mate, and he will plug Jim up and fill Jim to the brim with his seed, bury deep inside and pump load after load into Jim’s gorgeous body until Jim’s leaking Vulcan cum from every pore, and Spock will still drench him in it...

Jim whispers, eyes nearly wet, “Activate,” and the collar snaps a jolt of electricity through Spock’s tense body, enough to make him howl and collapse, hitting the floor with his chest and his chin and curling up. The leash drops back behind him, slipping off his shoulder. Clearly, he’s not meant to be off the floor. The pain leaves as soon as it came, and he looks up at Jim, not feeling betrayed but just _hungry._

Even when he’s a wreck, Jim’s beautiful. His face is scrunched up as though the shock hit him as well, and it looks like he hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten in too long. Spock shifts on the floor, licking his lips—he’ll take care of Jim, nurse Jim back to health. As soon as he’s bred Jim. Jim shakes his head and says, voice cracking, “Spock, you _have_ to behave.”

Spock doesn’t understand. “Jim...” It’s hard for him to talk. His brain doesn’t want to put words together. Licking his dry lips over and over, Spock somehow manages to force out, “You... my mate...” And he jerks on his bonds again, but they hold. 

Something flashes across Jim’s eyes. Understanding? Surely he understands. He repeats, “Spock, you have to be good. I... I need you to get through this.” His teeth are grit tightly together; his jaw must be sore. Spock wants to stroke and kiss it, then stretch it wider for his cock. “I _know_ we have something, and I wish I’d known how fast the time was ticking, or I would’ve made sure we spoke of it sooner. But for now... we can’t ever reach that something if you don’t make it through this. I can’t lose you. I... I know I can’t break you. I won’t. I don’t have it in me, and I couldn’t forgive myself, but... but you _have_ to break, as much for us as for _you._ ” Spock’s head shakes. No, no, Jim’s got it all wrong. _He_ has to submit to _Spock_ , and everything will be alright in the universe. Spock will fuck him hard and curl around him and keep him safe. “I’m so sorry...”

Spock’s head is just shaking back and forth. He wants to calm Jim desperately, almost as much as he wants to pin Jim down and ravish him. “Want... you...” He tries to worm closer along the ground, but it’s hard, and Jim shuffles back, out of reach. Frustrated, Spock growls. His mate can’t leave him. 

“I’m... going to get help.” Spock’s head snaps up, eyes wide. More? Jim’s going to give him more? So long as Jim stays... Spock snarls, half in anger and half in desire; will he want them? If they’re as pretty as Jim, if he can fuck them... “I can’t break you. I know I should. It... it would be better if it was me, because someone has to do it. I won’t let the Empire take you and lock you away forever. But... but I _just can’t hurt you._ Not you.”

“Want you,” Spock repeats, “want you.” Forcing himself up again, he lets the chain pull taut, doesn’t care if he’s leashed, has to reach Jim. “Want you, want you, _want you_...”

Jim licks his lips. That oh-so-fuckable habit he has. They look so plush, so pretty, just longing to have Spock’s teeth sink into them... “You can have me. If you’re good. I _need_ you to be good for me. Do you understand?”

Spock hisses. He’ll make Jim feel _so good_. Jim will cry and beg for his cock. 

“But you can’t have me until you’re good. It’s... Spock, you have no idea how hard this is for me. But I am your captain. I _am_ your friend.”

“— _Mate_ —”

Jim shakes his head. “More than that. And that’s why I have to do whatever I can, whatever I _must_ , to make sure we, _you_ , have a future.”

And he climbs to his feet, while Spock strains higher. Spock tries to lift up with his thighs, but his ankles are bound and the collar shocks him, sends him crashing back to the floor. Thrashing about, he rolls onto his back, bound arms digging into the ground, and he arches up, staring, upside down, at Jim’s tragic face. Jim looks in more pain than Spock is, and honestly, the fever is too high for the pain to have any bearing. Jim mutters, “Help’s going to come.”

“Do not leave.” It’s a growl, a warning. He’s never spoken to his captain like that before. Jim isn’t his captain, but his t’hy’la, _HIS._ He glowers at Jim, and when Jim walks away, Spock roars, he howls, he shrieks and begs and screams for Jim to come back, because without Jim, his world is nothing.

* * *

Spock’s panting, lying on his side. He’s come again. His cock’s still leaking. Jim is sitting at the computer terminal across the room, stubbornly refusing to look around. He spoke to someone—Commander Scott?—about taking command. Spock’s leashed by the bed. He can smell Jim so heavily, as though Jim hasn’t bathed for days. Even the subtle arch of Jim’s spine and the fine, sunshine strands of Jim’s hair make Spock’s blood boil. His own feverish imaginings get him off. When he’s finished making another stain on Jim’s carpet, he’ll roll over and start another. 

“Jim...” he tries, and he sees Jim’s shoulders hunch, sees the tension in Jim’s skin, slight beneath the golden uniform. “Jim.”

“I can’t,” Jim croaks, struggling and not turning. But he’s stayed. At least he’s stayed. Spock fights against his bindings.

“Take me.”

Jim’s head hangs, shaking.

“Take me,” Spock hisses, and he lies, “I will be good.” He sucks in breath and fights to be closer. “I will behave—”

“You can’t,” Jim mumbles sadly, “You’re not _you_ right now—”

“So tie me,” Spock snaps. There’s a box in the corner, loaded with equipment, instruments to brand and whip and contort—he can fit whatever shape Jim likes, just so long as Jim comes _closer_. Jim hasn’t released his wrists or ankles, which is fair enough—he would ravage Jim if he could. Jim’s still shaking his head, and part of Spock aches to see Jim so fragile. The rest of him hisses, “Jim, _come here._ ”

Finally, _finally_ , Jim rises from his seat. He turns, walking slowly towards Spock, breath held and muttering, “I can’t release you, but I can’t bring myself to tie you more. Alpha shift will be over soon...” It’s nonsense to Spock’s ears. 

As soon as Jim’s close enough that Spock thinks he has a shot, he springs to life, forgetting the leash. It snaps taut, holding him, and he fights against it, choking and snarling. Jim steps back, and Spock falls again, panting, “I will be good, I will be good...” But he knows he won’t. 

Jim says miserably, “I’m sorry.”

* * *

There’s no end to Spock’s misery. He stains Jim’s carpet over and over, never quite finding the final release, and at one point, he manages the wherewithal to sit up against the head of Jim’s bed, where he buries his face in the corner of Jim’s pillow. He inhales everything he can and humps the leg of the bed, listening to Jim’s breathing in the distance. He barely even looks aside when he hears the doors open again; he hasn’t heard Jim’s footsteps, and Jim is all that matters. He’s still sniffing at Jim’s pillow when he hears a gravely voice mutter, “Holy fuck...”

“He’s been like that all day,” Jim says too hollowly for Spock’s liking, and Spock rips his head around. Jim’s staring at the bedroom doorway, and Dr. McCoy is staring at Spock.

Spock has an instant spike of interest and redoubles his efforts against the bedpost. He expects to be jealous at another man in Jim’s space, but... the way McCoy is looking at him, clearly, this is all about _Spock_. McCoy’s handsome face is lax in shock, slightly stubbled jaw hanging open. Spock chews his lip—he’s salivating and spreads it. He can smell the doctor’s arousal from here, and he _wants_ it. Jim can watch. Maybe Jim will join? Spock could have both of them. If only he had two dicks; he’d take them both at once... he doesn’t care how it would work... he’s growling in the back of his throat and hardly notices; how did he never notice just how _gorgeous_ McCoy is before? 

Tall, chiseled, built—McCoy is everything an alpha male could hope to be. His broad shoulders are just begging for Spock to grab them, wrench them down, cling to them—his trim waist is hugged too tightly by his pants and it shows the bulge at his crotch, growing thicker under Spock’s hungry gaze. Before Spock’s even done admiring the view, McCoy’s bending to pull off his boots, grunting, “You’re sure about this?”

“We have to,” Jim says. “I... I can’t do it. Not to Spock...”

“I can,” McCoy snorts, before hastily adding, “for his benefit, of course. I mean, I know I’ve said some harsh things in the past, but... I don’t actually want anything bad to happen to him.”

Why don’t these people understand? Nothing bad is going to happen to him. The whole world is just his cock and what he can stuff it in. McCoy probably has a nice, tight ass. He’s taut and firm everywhere else. Down to bare feet, he strolls closer, and Spock stays, breathing hard, against the bed, eyeing McCoy warily. Jim will understand, surely, that this won’t mean anything. Spock will have plenty of seed left for Jim after. Jim is a good mate; he’ll understand. 

McCoy stops half a meter in front of Spock and murmurs, “You in there, hobgoblin?” His voice is a tentative mix of caring and warning.

Spock considers an answer that his mouth can’t seem to put together, and then he jerks his legs out, wanting to trip and knock McCoy over, but his bound ankles don’t get very far, and McCoy stumbles back in time. Spock glares up at him for daring to step away, and he snaps, “Damnit, Spock!” Spock crawls forward on his knees, bent grotesquely back by his arms, and McCoy steps back again, cursing under his breath.

“It’s no use yelling at him,” Jim’s voice fills in the background: a low buzzing in Spock’s ears, worthless as this new opponent looms before him. “He’s never going to pass like this.”

“You want to be chained up the rest of your life?” McCoy snarls, while Spock mirrors the angry look; McCoy doesn’t understand. As soon as these chains are released, it’ll be the other way around. 

“Bones,” Jim warns. “It’s not his fault.”

“I know that.”

“Be nice.”

McCoy looks around sternly. “We can’t ‘be nice.’ Not if we want him to actually pass. They’re going to check his mind, Jim. Make sure we can handle him. I can’t prove we can dominate a rabid Vulcan by being nice.” When Jim’s face falters, McCoy adds, more quietly, “And I think you know that. That’s why you called me.” Jim takes a moment, then nods. 

Spock isn’t interested in their useless banter. He growls to bring McCoy’s attention back to him. It works. McCoy turns back and kneels down, eyes level with Spock as he says, too firmly for prey, “You might think you can take on Jim, but I’m another story. The Empire’s made me do a lot worse than this. I’m going to tame you, no matter what it takes, for your own damn good.” 

All Spock can see is McCoy’s slightly chapped, pink lips, elegantly curved as they form the different nonsense words. So close. Closer than Jim got. In an instant, Spock’s jerking across the gap, throwing his entire weight at McCoy, slamming their lips together. 

It’s instant heaven. _Finally_ , a warm body, and he sinks his teeth into McCoy’s bottom lip, sucking the moist flesh, tugging as he twists his head to the side. He has less than half a second before there’s a fist is in his hair and he’s being wrenched back. He fights the grip and manages to stay close enough that their noses are touching, and Spock can feel McCoy’s breath, strains to close that tiny distance, can taste the coppery muddle of blood he pulled out—red, human blood, the same as his mate has, he knows, and he’s backhanded abruptly across the face. His head swivels around, cheek stinging. He doesn’t care. He tries to turn back, but the collar shocks him and he topples to the ground. 

He lies there, twitching under the low electrical charges that continue to pulse through him, and Bones hisses, “I mean it, Spock. I’m not going to let you down. I’ll do what it takes.” He climbs to his feet as the charges subside.

Spock can see Jim watching from the console, looking in far worse shape than Spock feels. Spock is strong. He lets Jim know with his look that it’ll be fine. He’ll conquer McCoy soon enough, and then he’ll storm over there and take care of Jim next. He can handle both of them. He could handle the whole damn ship. 

McCoy circles around him, and Spock tries to turn, but McCoy slaps the back of his head and snaps, “Don’t make me activate that collar again.” Spock struggles to listen, biding his time. 

If his hands and legs weren’t tied, he’d roll over and pin McCoy to the floor. But they are, and instead, he’s virtually powerless as McCoy grabs his hips and pulls them into the air. Spock stays on his knees, cheek to the floor, trying to look back. McCoy’s hands drift down his sides and around the curve of his ass—Spock groans and leans into the touch, yes, _yes_ , _finally_.

Though his instincts cry for Spock to spin around and regain control, McCoy’s skilled grip momentarily placates him. The way McCoy moves to massage the cheeks of his ass is absolutely expert, and Spock croons like an animal as he’s kneaded and played with just right, pinched in a few places and then smacked. He yelps at the impact, but leans back for another; he can take it rough, wants it rough, wants to be the one spanking McCoy. He’ll take this first. Is this how McCoy likes it? Spock can be a good lover; he can bend to his partner’s tastes. He could spank McCoy raw. His mind takes stock of every little sensation, the analytical nature flipping on in a heartbeat: this is data he can use. McCoy alternates between slapping his tender cheeks and grabbing them harshly, squeezing them together and pulling them apart, pushing Spock forward into the carpet with the force of it all. Spock moans and pushes himself into McCoy’s hands; his cock is rock-hard between his legs. He can hear McCoy’s breath catch and smirks to himself; McCoy must know how lucky he is that Spock is allowing such a thing.

Then one calloused hand slips down Spock’s cheeks and cups his balls, fondling the engorged sac, and McCoy hisses over Spock’s languid groan, “Yeah, that’s it... give in... if you’re good for me, I’ll make it good for you...” The condescending tone makes Spock’s face twist, but it feels too good to complain. McCoy continues to squeeze his ass cheeks and play with Spock’s balls at the same time, tugging gently and rolling them around, while Spock’s dick twitches happily. He thinks of sinking his erection into McCoy’s pretty mouth, and it makes his eyes flutter. “There’s a good boy...”

The hand playing with Spock’s ass switches tactics, fingers pressing instead between them, sliding down his cheeks, already slick with perspiration. He feels one blunt tip ghost over his puckered hole, and he leans his ass back, willing his body ready; it stretches and ripples and teems with a hot, slick liquid, ready to suck McCoy’s finger inside. He wants to _fuck_ , of course, but if he has to lure McCoy into fucking him first, so be it. As soon as these chains are off...

“ _Fuck_.”

“What?” Jim calls, and he sounds worried, but Spock looks up and over at him: it’s okay, it’s okay.

“He’s fucking _wet_ for me.” 

Rumbling in the back of his throat and ready to go, Spock pushes himself back, willing McCoy to start and delighted when one thick, long finger shoots up inside him. Spock gasps with the impact and shudders, but doesn’t stop, doesn’t tell McCoy to stop. There’s no pain, just the hot desire that pulses through him; he clenches his muscles and sucks McCoy in. McCoy swears again and pulls out, only to add a second finger a moment later. He fucks Spock hard with both of them, twisting around like he’s looking for something specific, but there isn’t any need; everything he touches sends a shock of pleasure up Spock’s spine. While that’s happening, he’s too giddy to worry about asserting his dominance. He’s just taking what McCoy gives him and crooning at each small jab. McCoy stretches his fingers apart and opens Spock’s asshole wider, though Spock could do it himself, and he doesn’t. He wants it to hurt, wants it to burn, wants to _feel_ McCoy’s cock spreading him open. McCoy makes it to three fingers and pulls them out, leaving Spock to howl in frustration. Just when it was starting to get good. He tries to thrust back at McCoy, but with his ankles bound together, it makes him unsteady. McCoy pushes his ass back into place, still held up in the air, and squeezes his balls as a warning. Spock grunts but waits. 

He’s looking over his shoulder, _staring_ at the bulge in McCoy’s pants. Fingers wet with Spock’s natural lubrication, McCoy pushes the black fabric down his hips and pulls himself out, dark curls exposed to the air a split-second before his huge, glorious cock. Spock’s eyes nearly roll back up in his head—he’s delighted—McCoy’s dick is _massive_. He had no idea humans could be so well endowed. It’s already hard, jutting proudly out to meet him, lined in veins and pink at the tip, looking like an organ McCoy could do pushups with—sheer muscle. Spock feels the instant need to mark McCoy as _his_ , let every Vulcan that passes know that this human and this beautiful cock belong solely to _him_. What a trophy piece. Spock chews his bottom lip in lieu of chewing McCoy’s, and in his peripherals, he can see McCoy smirking. He doesn’t care. Let McCoy be proud. He should be. Jim is Spock’s prize and always will be, but... McCoy’s a crown jewel all on his own. 

McCoy disappears fully behind Spock, and Spock fights with himself to stay down. His hands struggle against their bonds but don’t get anywhere. He tries to lift off the floor and finds his hair grabbed again, finds himself shoved down, the side of his face slamming back into the carpet. He’s held there as the spongy tip of McCoy’s cock presses between his cheeks, slipping through the sweat and lube to Spock’s open center. It stabs into place, hesitates the briefest of seconds, and plunges in a moment later. 

Spock shrieks in delight, writhing instantly, ignoring the way his ass is slapped and he’s yelled at. He can hear Jim over McCoy’s swearing and his own screams, but he ignores it—McCoy’s monster cock wastes no time claiming him. It sheathes itself to the hilt on the first thrust, and Spock sucks at it with everything he has, clenched around it and trembling, exploding from the pleasure: it stretches him to the edge of his limits, and the friction, even through the lube, is burning so hot that it almost hurts—Vulcan sex should never hurt, but McCoy’s so _big_ and _relentless_. McCoy stays in for all of two seconds and pulls half out, stabs in again, shoving Spock forward so hard that his dick slaps his stomach, smearing precum everywhere. Spock’s leaking profusely. His ass is spasming, his body writhing, but McCoy holds him in place by his hair; his head stings from having his hair pulled so sharply. McCoy, buried deep inside again, slaps the top of both cheeks, and Spock’s vision dances: _perfect_.

The rhythm McCoy sets is utterly brutal. Spock’s ass has already loosened as much as it can, and it’s not enough—it chafes and burns so much that he’s afraid his nerves are going to short out. McCoy’s grunting is almost as loud as Spock’s noises, as the slapping sounds in the air. Spock’s going to come. He knows it. He’ll come any minute and get hard again. Then he’ll splash his spent load on McCoy’s thighs and push it up into McCoy’s ass; he needs to mark McCoy all over; no other Vulcan can have this man. As soon as he’s untied. He _needs_ to be untied. He wants his seed in McCoy’s stomach. If he can just...

He starts struggling wildly, driving himself harder onto McCoy’s dick with each thrust, trying to break the hand and wrist cuffs apart by sheer force. He struggles against McCoy’s grip on his hair, wanting to snap the leash free even though he knows it’s no use. McCoy slams his head against the ground hard enough for him to see stars and shouts, “Submit, you idiot!” But Spock just snarls. He can feel a bruise forming on his cheek and still fights, _fuck_ , this _cock_ , he loves it, he needs to flip McCoy over and— “Damnit, Spock, stop struggling! I don’t want to agonize you during sex, but I will!”

“Bones,” Jim hisses suddenly, _Jim_ , Spock nearly forgot, but how could he? He never really did. His squirming begins to die out as he bends his neck to stare at Jim instead; Jim looks horrified and turned on and angry and jealous all at once. Spock’s hands are trembling. 

“He’s got to learn,” McCoy insists. 

“At least untie him...”

“ _If_ he behaves.” And _that_ Spock hears. 

Spock, being pounded into over and over, reluctantly stills his body. Be good, be good. It’s so difficult. It’s painfully difficult. His dick is pulsing with need. But the need to be able to claim McCoy is stronger, and Spock, lungs nearly convulsing, stills himself: just limply takes his doctor’s cock. 

A moment later, McCoy chuckles and pets his hair; Spock grits his teeth and lets it happen, staring unblinkingly at Jim. Spock’s ass and the back of his thighs are growing sore from being slammed into so roughly, but he takes it gladly. McCoy takes a torturous amount of time to act. 

Finally, _finally_ , he lets go of Spock’s hip. His warmth ghosts over Spock’s arms. They’re let loose. They’re nearly shaking, shoulders too sore to move at first, too stiff, wrists probably deeply bruised. McCoy doesn’t stop fucking him for a second. His ankles are released next, though his collar and leash stay firmly on. He waits and waits, but McCoy simply goes back to clutching at his waist, and the open, black bindings tumble off Spock’s back. He takes a moment to breathe.

Then he clamps his thighs back around McCoy’s legs and jerks them sideways, knocking McCoy to the floor. Rolling with the movement, Spock slips off and turns, slamming back down so he’s sitting on McCoy’s cock, straddling McCoy’s crotch, staring at McCoy shocked face. McCoy tries to reach for him, but Spock, twisted in his own leash, grabs McCoy’s wrists and pins them to the floor. McCoy spits in anger and struggles, but his struggling is _nothing_ against Spock’s strength. Spock pins him easily and lifts, drops back down—McCoy cuts off, gasping. Spock does it again, and again, and he rides McCoy’s cock for all it’s worth, bouncing up and down and loving every second; his own weight adds so much pressure to the suction, makes him impossibly fuller, so full that he thinks he might burst. He looks down at McCoy and spits on McCoy’s face, watches the clear glob run down McCoy’s cheek and McCoy splutter in disgust, while Spock smiles cruelly. Yes, _yes_. McCoy is such a fine specimen and _all his._

He hates that McCoy is wearing so many clothes. He wants to rip them off, but he isn’t stupid enough to underestimate his opponent—he knows better than to let McCoy’s hands go. But it’s a shame. He wants to see McCoy’s strong chest. He wants to feel the bare skin of McCoy’s thighs. He hears a chair scrape back and looks up sharply at Jim, snarling. He loves his mate, he does, but he will _not_ be interrupted. Jim hovers back, clearly lost. McCoy grunts, “S’fine, Jim.” And of course is it—Spock is still riding his cock like the ancients rode giant sehlats. McCoy has a beast of a cock anyway. Spock snickers crudely at the idea and grinds onto it, earning a moan from his captive. A moment later, McCoy bursts inside him, arching back and screaming beautifully, eyes rolling to he back of his head. Satisfaction flows into Spock, and it pushes him over the edge. 

He comes all over McCoy’s shirt, so hard it hits McCoy’s chin and splashes around his face, clinging to his neck and sticking the fabric down. Spock keeps going on McCoy’s flagging cock until the doctor is groaning in pain, and only then does Spock lift off and sit to the side, gaping ass leaking all down his thighs. A short moment to recover, and he’ll push McCoy over and start again. 

McCoy, still on his back, leans his head back against the floor and looks upside down at Jim. 

He pants dazedly, “This might be harder than we thought.”

* * *

McCoy starts activating the collar, and Spock never gets to taste his sweet ass. Instead, Spock is fucked again and told to submit, and Spock manages for half a round, just once. The rest of the time he claws at and bites and spits on McCoy, branding the doctor with his scent and marks. When McCoy leaves, he looks exhausted and mutters about not having enough stimulants for this—fine. Spock hopes he comes back with others.

But when he disappears through the doors of the captain’s quarters, no one else comes through them. Jim brings Spock another glass of water and a bowl of food, and Spock, who, for some reason, doesn’t want to eat with his hands, simply downs the water. He’s a Vulcan. He can go days without food. Jim never comes close enough to touch, and he hates that. 

Jim tells him, “You can sleep on the bed.”

And Spock hisses, “Sleep with me.”

“I’m... going to sleep on the couch.”

Spock growls, “Jim,” but Jim doesn’t listen. 

“It can’t be like this, Spock. It can’t be when you want; it has to be by my hand. ...You’ll understand when this is all over.”

When _what’s_ all over? Spock cries out when Jim leaves the room, but try as he might, the leash won’t rip from the wall. He wants Jim so desperately, and he doesn’t understand why he can’t _have_ Jim. He knows Jim wants him too.

He surges through the bond, calling out for his mate, and he _knows_ Jim hears him. Their bonding was never intentional, was never something meant for this connection, but it’s there, and Spock rips it wide open, tears it into something new. He feels Jim trembling in his wake, and he knows that Jim is too strong to give in. Spock’s a mess, and Jim is too. 

Spock staggers against the bed. He crawls up into it. Jim’s scent is everywhere. Spock curls up in it, wrapped in the soft blankets and in the plush pillows and the hollow, empty space where Jim should be. 

He doesn’t sleep. He howls for Jim all night and stains his cheeks with tears.


	4. Trial (Part 2)

Jim sits at the desk in the corner, ready by his console, while Spock sits on the bed, urging his mate to come closer. 

Jim refuses to see reason and give in, so Spock is left horribly alone, until McCoy shows up again. He’s washed since yesterday, but Spock still gets a faint whiff of himself on the human’s long strides, and that makes him grin to himself; he’s staked his claim. The doctor gets up to the foot of the bed, wearing civilian clothes: jeans and an un-tucked button-up shirt. 

Spock lunges for him instantly, but the leash snaps taut, and try as Spock might, he just can’t _reach_. McCoy wrinkles his nose and looks halfway between amused and sad, neither of which is appropriate. He should be hungry and ready, like Spock is...

He shakes his head and grumbles, “Didn’t you learn anything yesterday?”

 _Yes_. He learned McCoy’s hiding a monster cock and a great-looking ass in those too-tight pants, and why the captain allows such a man to walk around clothed is a mystery. Spock stares at the slight bulge in McCoy’s pants and wills it to grow and come out; he’s been waiting for _Jim_ all night and all morning, but he certainly wouldn’t mind playing with McCoy in the meantime. 

McCoy snorts at him and takes a few steps sideways, gesturing vaguely towards the floor. “Alright, pointy. You’ve still got nothing but sex on that Vulcan mind of yours. I get it. But if you want this—” And he cups himself pointedly through his pants, making Spock hiss in anticipation, “—you’re going to have to behave yourself, you hear?”

Spock hears just fine. He nods as he licks his lip, not really committing to anything so much as instinctively doing what he thinks McCoy wants to see—whatever will get him closer to that beast of a cock. He thinks from the resulting expression that McCoy hasn’t been fooled, but there’s nothing else to say. Speech is still a too-complicated issue for Spock to deal with. McCoy points at the floor again before rolling his eyes and announcing, “Get on the floor, Spock. You’ve got a better shot if all your memories are looking up at your master.”

Spock doesn’t have a master, just a mate. He growls at McCoy, but he crawls off the bed nonetheless; when he’s aligned with where the leash is secured to the wall, he can go farther than when he’s on the bed, stretching it diagonal. If McCoy takes just one more step, Spock might be able to grab him and throw him down. 

McCoy just points to the ground again and says, “Lie down.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, and behind them, Jim asks, “What are you doing?” Jim’s lighter voice is always music to Spock’s ears, and it instantly distracts him from whatever McCoy asked of him—he looks at Jim and keens, trying vainly to crawl closer. It’s no good.

“Teaching him tricks,” McCoy answers simply. To Spock’s distress, Jim’s lips tighten, full of disapproval. The idea that McCoy is making Jim unhappy puts an extra growl in his throat. 

“He’s not a dog, Bones.”

Grumbling and glancing over his shoulder, McCoy returns, “You’ll forgive me if I don’t have any experience in actual slave training.” Jim’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t answer, and McCoy looks back around, placated. Spock isn’t a slave either, and he has no intention of being ‘trained,’ but then McCoy tells him bluntly, “Listen up, Spock. We got more backup to call, but if you don’t get through this, you’re not going to get to them. Do you know what that means?”

A minute passes, and Spock moves his head to the side: human for ‘no.’

“That means that if you’re a good boy and do what I tell you, you just might get your hands on some more man meat, you got that?” Spock’s head tilts up sharply, intent, and McCoy smirks. “That’s right. You want more cock, don’t you? Then you’d better start listening to Uncle Bones.” They’re not related. Is McCoy’s cock on the table? Because Spock _wants it_. He can think of a wealth of other men aboard this ship that he wants, and the thought of getting his hands on more of his crew—more of the bridge crew in particular—nearly has him salivating. McCoy snaps sharply, “Now _lie down._ ” 

Spock, trying to remember the smell of a certain ensign that would certainly submit to him, slowly lowers to the floor. He stays on his side, cheek against the cropped carpet, and he looks up at McCoy, waiting for the promised cock. A second later, he’s getting up again, and McCoy barks, “Did I tell you to get up? Stay down!” So Spock, growling in warning, remains on his side. 

McCoy tells him, “Roll over,” and does a little finger gesture that helps explain the desired motion. Spock, fighting with himself, tries very hard to think of the sex he’ll get in the future, because he isn’t getting any this moment. He has to be smart about it, he tells himself. Eventually, he rolls onto his back, arms limp against the carpet but legs tense and ready to lunge. If McCoy just comes a little closer...

Smirking wide, McCoy tells him, “Beg,” and Spock snaps, jerking against his collar to reach McCoy’s feet. He rolls back on his side and twists around to make use of his arms, the leash cold and drawn along his spine, but McCoy steps back too fast, and Spock is left snarling and clawing at nothing. He hears McCoy swear and ignores it, and it takes several futile attempts at stretch his arms beyond their limits before he relaxes again, staring challengingly up at his tormentor.

McCoy nods back towards Jim; Spock’s eyes dart to follow. “You see that console, hobgoblin? He’s trying to run the ship over there, but if you’ve got no interest in passing this test I can just as easily have him send a message to belay the other two men you were going to get.” Spock jerks back to McCoy, alert: two? His hands slide back towards his body, legs twisting in the chain. McCoy asks, “Understand?” And Spock manages to nod.

“Good. Now sit up.” 

So Spock, gritting his teeth, rolls onto his side and pushes up to his knees, mostly just because it brings him eye level with McCoy’s crotch. Beyond him, Jim says hollowly, “Good boy.” Spock makes a crooning noise before he can stop himself; he does _want_ to be good for his mate, he really does. It’s just so very, very hard. Jim’s praise is the only thing that keeps him sitting still. McCoy nods.

McCoy grunts, “I’m going to pet you, and you’re _not_ going to touch me, okay? If you do, I swear I’ll walk right out of this room and leave you with nothing but the floor to hump.” Spock frowns; he much prefers a living, breathing human body. 

He bites the inside of his lip and bows his head, even though he’s unable to keep his eyes off McCoy’s legs. If he could just... but no, that won’t work, he’ll only be pulled away from... if he lets McCoy pet him... will he get to taste McCoy’s cock? Maybe fuck McCoy’s ass? That’s all he really wants, and it doesn’t seem too much to ask. He’d rather just take. But that hasn’t been working. If he can just...

McCoy’s large hand lands atop his head and brushes back his hair. He tenses, going stiff, and McCoy nearly purrs, “Good boy... that’s it, just take it.” McCoy snickers and throws, presumably back at Jim, “Always knew he’d make a good bitch.”

“He’s still my first officer, Bones,” Jim answers testily, and when Spock looks up, their eyes connect. That momentary distraction keeps him from tackling McCoy, but it also makes him crave what he can’t have. What he must have. Will have. His mate can’t resist him forever. Jim watches him warily, and Spock wonders if his mate enjoys watching his prowess with other men. 

As soon as McCoy’s fingers slip from his hair, Spock’s grabbing at McCoy’s thighs—a sudden reaction he couldn’t stop. McCoy grabs the back of his head and jerks him away, scowling down at him. Spock sneers back. The musk of McCoy’s crotch is especially strong this close up, and Spock’s lithe fingers travel up McCoy’s thighs, wanting to rip the rough fabric straight off. He’s shoved back a minute later, and McCoy hisses, “Sit!”

Spock grits his teeth but straightens—he _was_ sitting.

There’s a short chirp in the background that pierces through the room, and Spock’s head instantly snaps towards the sound. McCoy and Jim are exchanging glances in his peripherals, while Spock’s breathing increases, anticipation widening his eyes; are these the two men he was promised? He looks up at McCoy—he’s been good, hasn’t he? He shouldn’t have to be. He snarls suddenly and tenses—it doesn’t matter—whoever it is, he’ll take them and claim them for his own. If he wants them, that is. If Jim is amenable. He licks his lips. But Jim invited them, didn’t he?

Jim climbs out of his chair, and McCoy steps out of Spock’s reach, the idea of Jim _leaving_ him instantly summoning panic. Jim can’t leave him. He’ll take others, yes, but he needs Jim in the room, needs Jim within sight, and Jim’s disappearing into the rest of his quarters. Spock can hear the door slide open and tenses while he waits; he can’t stand the thought of Jim leaving through them. If Jim does, he’ll go mad.

But Jim comes back, ushering in two more officers in golden shirts. Lieutenant Sulu stares at Spock in obvious surprise, and Ensign Chekov, half a step behind him, turns a bright crimson. Spock leans back on his heels— _perfect._

If he could’ve booked two more playmates for his harem, these are the two he would’ve chosen. He tilts his head back as he purrs at Chekov: the obvious weak link. He’s delighted when Chekov blushes even darker and looks at Jim, clearly seeking guidance, permission. 

Jim, wringing his hands nervously, explains, “It’s um... just like we thought it would be. No new updates. ...Bones?”

McCoy’s the one that sweeps the other two closer, barking automatically, “Chekov, you get in front of him. Maybe if we can distract him at first, we can get him more use to being on the receiving end. You’ll be his training wheels.” Spock doesn’t understand the reference, but it doesn’t matter.

Chekov, foolishly fully clothed, is walking closer. He isn’t as smart as Jim and McCoy, clearly; he comes too close. Spock, waiting until he’s certain Chekov’s in range, darts out a moment later. He snatches Chekov’s ankles too easily and jerks Chekov down—Chekov topples and hits the floor with a loud thunk and a light cry. Spock’s already dragging him down, scratching along the carpet, and then he’s got Chekov’s small, thin body under him, and it’s too easy to straddle the ensign’s legs. Chekov looks up at him in shock, hazel eyes wide, but Spock simply grins hungrily down at him. He can feel the others hovering on his peripherals, and he hears Jim call hastily, “Chekov, if you don’t want—”

“I am fine, Keptin,” Chekov squeaks. Spock tests to be sure and grinds his hips into Chekov’s crotch, earning a languid moan: yes, Chekov is definitely fine with this. He wants to be here, wants to be under Spock. Of course he does. He turns his head away when Spock leans down, and Spock doesn’t mind, just bites his cheek instead, digging blunt teeth into supple skin. Chekov gasps and tenses beneath Spock, while he runs his hands down from Chekov’s shoulders, reaching Chekov’s wrists and pinning them to the floor. Chekov wasn’t struggling, but now if he tries, he won’t have any chance. When Spock tears his mouth away, there’s a wet pink patch along Chekov’s jaw, outlined with the little red grooves of teeth. 

Spock purrs his contentment and nudges Chekov’s face up properly, this time landing a kiss on the lips. Chekov has a sharp intake of breath, then simply submits, and Spock growls his approval while he grinds his new toy into the ground. It was more than worth playing McCoy’s stupid games. Chekov kisses so timidly, or at least, weakly compared to Spock, but Spock is an animal, fervently digging into him. When Spock finally releases his frail wrists, they simply lift to wrap around Spock’s bare shoulders. 

Spock smirks into the kiss and uses his hands to spread Chekov’s thighs instead, pulling them up and around his body. Chekov obediently lifts them to help, clinging to Spock’s waist, while Spock pushes his pants and underwear right down his hips. Chekov tries to break the kiss to gasp at the new exposure, but Spock doesn’t let him, kisses him too completely. This is what Chekov is here for. Exists for. His small cock is easy to pull out, nice and warm and well-fit in his hand. Spock strokes it encouragingly as he runs his other hand through soft pubic hair and along tight balls—promises that he’ll be a kind lover. Only once he has an ample supply of precum spilling out of Chekov’s eager cock does he reach down between the cheeks of Chekov’s ass, finding and rubbing along the small, puckered hole. Chekov is young; he’s sure to be very tight. As mercilessly as Spock is going to fuck him, he’ll at least get preparation. He whimpers beautifully as Spock pushes one fingertip inside, wrenching his mouth aside to moan, “ _Commander_...”

“No.”

Spock looks around sharply; he was so busy preparing Chekov to take that he didn’t notice the other two stepping around behind him. McCoy’s now sitting on the bed with his legs spread, massaging himself through his pants while he watches them play. Sulu, on the other hand, pats Spock’s ass and repeats, “No. I’m sorry, Sir, but if I want to work with you again—which I assure you, I do—I’m afraid I can’t let you have him so easily.”

“Hikaru,” Chekov breathes, but Spock hisses to shut him up, and he does almost instantly, looking nervous. Spock pushes his finger inside further as punishment, and Chekov gasps and arches up into Spock’s body. Throwing a taunting look over his shoulder at Sulu, Spock smirks. He wasn’t expecting this: Chekov’s already wet and stretched for him. He expected a ridiculously tight furnace, and what he finds isn’t far from that, but it is moist and somewhat relaxed, and he knows that Chekov must’ve prepared for this. He came wanting Spock’s dick, then. Smart boy. Spock rocks appreciatively into him and pulls the finger out. Apparently, he can skip right to the chase.

“Commander,” Sulu warns, but Spock isn’t listening. He slides the tip of his cock between Chekov’s soft cheeks and rests at Chekov’s hole, a burst of relief coursing through him; _finally_ , he’s going to get to _fuck_ someone. Chekov simply trembles beneath him and holds onto his shoulders, while Sulu lands a hard smack across Spock’s ass. Spock grunts but otherwise ignores it; he shoves inside Chekov in one sudden, brutal motion, delighting at how loudly his tiny lover screams. 

“Spock!” Sulu admonishes, and another slap rains sharply across his rear, then another, then another, but Spock doesn’t care: he’s shoving himself deeply into Chekov’s tight body, giddy at just how much it squeezes at him, all the greedy pressure that claws to encompass his cock. He doesn’t want to go slowly, but he has to; he’s simply too _big_ and barely fits, preparation or no. Chekov’s thighs are shaking around him, but his cock is hard against Spock’s stomach, still leaking little bits of precum. Sulu spanks him harder and leans over him, so close that he actually pushes Spock deeper. The thick uniform scratches against Spock’s bare skin as Sulu presses him down and nips at the curve of his ear—Spock looks around in surprise. Sulu bites it again, harder, and snarls, “You’re being very bad, Commander.”

In sheer defiance, Spock rolls his hips into Chekov, loving the way the helpless little moan from below them makes Sulu’s eyes narrow. He’s balls-deep now, and every gasp for breath Chekov makes has his body reverberate around Spock’s engorged cock. Sulu reeks of jealousy and desire, but that’s his business. Spock only cares for the latter half. He doesn’t wait around for Sulu to scold him more—he just starts pounding Chekov relentlessly into the ground. He makes it to three tremendous thrusts before Sulu’s gripping his waist tight enough to draw blood, and Spock, snarling wildly, attempts to buck Sulu off. 

Sulu shoves a finger into Spock’s ass without any warning or preparation, not even slowly. It simply dives inside, and Spock screams at the sudden invasion, caught off guard and struggling quickly to accommodate—to wet and stretch himself—but he’s supposed to do that _first_. His cock twitches eagerly inside Chekov as his ass catches up: ready on all fronts. Sulu’s finger doesn’t even work him, simply waits until he’s done the work himself. Then it’s ripping out and, before Spock can resume properly claiming Chekov, something _much_ bigger is storming into him.

Spock freezes, mouth falling open, but Sulu isn’t any nicer with his cock than he was with his finger. He stuffs it inside Spock’s shuddering ass, then slaps one tender cheek and hisses, “Only good boys get proper preparation. You want to play rough, we’ll play rough.” Spock shivers automatically. He knows, in his mind, that Sulu isn’t as strong as him, but still, Sulu certainly sounds like a formidable opponent. His cock backs him up, nice and thick, plenty hard, stabbing all into Spock in one torturous thrust. As soon as it’s inside, as far as it can go, Sulu adjusts to mount him properly, arms to either side of him and legs bracketing his, and Spock keens for it without meaning to. Now he’s being stimulated from both ends, even if they aren’t moving. When Spock tries to buck up into Sulu’s cock, dragging himself half out of Chekov, he’s slapped again and shoved down. “No.” Sulu makes a fist in Spock’s hair and jerks his head back, leaving him to splutter and arch. “I don’t care how insatiable you are—you are _not_ going to control this. You are going to submit to me, let me take control, and be damn grateful I’m letting you have such a pretty thing to put your cock in, understand?”

Why does everyone keep asking if he understands? He _doesn’t_. This is madness. Why should he let Sulu take control? Sulu’s only fucking him anyway because Spock’s allowing it. Yes. He growls and slams into Chekov, though the next slap he receives does make him grunt—his ass is starting to sting. Sulu slaps him again, and Spock almost tries to throw Sulu off, but then he catches movement in his peripherals—Jim’s come closer. Jim kneels down beyond the reach of the leash and tells him, steady and like a true captain: “Spock, behave for Sulu.”

Spock licks his lips and feels the familiar need to nod. He wants to listen to his mate, he really does.

And Sulu uses that moment of distraction to brutally slam into him, shoving him so hard into Chekov that it’s hard to tell which of them screams louder. Sulu simply chuckles and pulls half out, doing it again, sending Spock spiraling down as his head fogs over from too much stimulation. Sulu’s cock rubbing inside him is a wonderful feeling, and Chekov’s walls thrumming around him is just as blissful. He doesn’t get a chance to regain control, because Sulu doesn’t give him one, and the more he’s thoroughly fucked, the less Spock feels inclined to fight. This is just what he wanted anyway. Two gorgeous men, both his at once. His cock’s been rock-hard since McCoy first promised him sex, and now he’s coming near the end of another load. He can feel it as his full balls bounce against the ripe cheeks of Chekov’s ass. When he glances at the bed, he finds McCoy’s perfect cock exposed to the air, being expertly stroked in time with their rhythm. If Spock could reach, he’d turn his head and take a taste. There’s always room for more. But he’d prefer Jim to wander closer, to beg to be included, to be touched, to be held, to be Spock’s one and only lover...

Spock wants to do this forever, wants to keep going with all his loyal men, but his balls are too full and his body needs to expel it, to breed Chekov properly. The thought of filling Chekov to the brim with his seed is enough to make him howl, and he tries once to move his hips, but Sulu instantly steals his control away. Sulu holds his head down by the hair and slaps his ass whenever he shows the slightest sign of struggling, and Spock, somehow, ends up just enjoying the ride. His own hands are busy holding Chekov down, but they quickly switch to rolling up Chekov’s shirt and appreciating Chekov’s soft body, brushing over smooth curves and warm flesh. Chekov is a puddle of whimpers and panting and moans, and Spock returns to kissing him harshly, more on the neck and side of the face than the mouth; he wants to leave marks. His own ass will probably be just as red and bruised afterwards; Sulu is sparing him no mercy.

It’s just the way he’d want it. It’s perfect for a Vulcan in the throws of wild sex, and the harsher Sulu is with him, the more Spock leans into it, and he’s elated when it finally earns him more attention: when Sulu’s teeth sink into his shoulder. A hand reaches in between him and Chekov, firm fingers slipping down his stomach, parting around the base of his cock, even as it disappears inside Chekov. Without warning, Spock’s jerked upwards, his cock pulled out of its sheath, and he gasps, scrambling for purchase along the ground. Sulu grabs his throbbing cock and lets go of his shoulder to order, “Come.”

Spock obeys instantly. He doesn’t mean to listen, but he couldn’t _not_ , not with the way Sulu’s still fucking him so very hard and his legs are tangled in Chekov’s. His release paints his own stomach and spills over Sulu’s hand, and an extra load isn’t far behind: Chekov finishing without any help. His cum splatters over Spock’s chest, and for a minute, that dual spray of seed is enough to keep him busy, to keep him satiated and happy, even as Chekov disappears from his vision. He’s vaguely aware that McCoy is pulling his prey away, but he can hardly move after them while he’s still being used by Sulu. Sulu keeps pumping Spock’s dick long after it’s spent, nipping at his neck and murmuring, “There’s a good boy... stay for me...”

His cock’s barely softened before it starts to harden again in Sulu’s busy fingers, but his head stays dizzy, and he’s suddenly aware of just how very _sore_ his ass is. He tries to look over his shoulder, but it only earns him a bite on his cheek. He vaguely wants Sulu to pull out, but every time Sulu gets halfway there, he simply slams back inside. Spock, stuck on all fours like a sehlat being bred, is stuck where he is. He’s held in place, and a moment later, he’s being filled with Sulu’s cum, warm and slick and comforting. He clenches around it and groans, while Sulu pets his burning ass cheeks and hisses, “Yeah... good boy... that’s a good Vulcan...” Spock shudders and takes the messy aftermath with a whirl of confusion. 

He wanted to _dominate_ , but being mounted and fucked... it isn’t so bad. Just like it wasn’t so difficult riding McCoy’s cock. Sulu’s grip slowly loosens, and Spock’s allowed to slump to the floor, ass held up, until Sulu finally releases him. 

Then he’s emptied, left dripping and covered and temporarily satiated. He sags onto his side and watches the rest of the men in the room; Sulu’s tucking himself back in, and Chekov’s a blushing mess, McCoy looks vaguely proud, and Jim...

Jim wanders closer and kneels down. Spock mentally calculates the odds of being able to properly reach and drag Jim in, but Jim’s just that little bit too far. Still, he reaches forward and pets Spock’s sweat-slicked hair, whispering, “You’ve been very good, Spock. Very good.”

Spock wants to be good for Jim, and he attempts to smile.

* * *

The others are talking, but Spock isn’t listening. Their long conversations are too difficult to follow; none of it matters and there are more important things. 

Namely, Ensign Chekov, who’s been stripped down to nothing and left right on the edge of Spock’s reach. He sits with crossed legs, back straight and arms in his lap, as though he’s at attention. He still smells a bit like Spock, a lot like sex, and even if he isn’t _Jim_ , he’s so ridiculously tempting that Spock is genuinely torn. Every time Spock moves towards Chekov, Jim moves farther away. When Spock touched Chekov, Jim left the room. McCoy told him that if he fucked Chekov, Jim would leave his quarters entirely. Spock’s pulsing hard again, but the thought of losing his mate’s presence is even more maddening that this ridiculous celibacy.

He doesn’t see why he can’t just have them _both_ , but there’s no sense fighting anymore. He’s sat back, and he’s earned Jim back in the room. He comforts himself with that. 

And he stares at Chekov like a meal to be devoured, licking his lips. 

He listens to the senseless nattering of the other three, and Jim, a low, pleasant buzz in his ears, makes him want to try very, very badly to be _good_.

* * *

When he stays still, he finds, they come closer on their own. When he sits where he is long enough, and puts his hands where he’s told, and opens his mouth, he’s fed McCoy’s cock, and it’s so very, very _worth it._

He’s made to keep his arms behind his back, as though he’s still tied, and he has to use his head to do his work, to bob up and down and swallow everything he can of the huge cock on his tongue. It’s much wider than his jaw seems built for, and he’s already experiencing a dull ache from holding his mouth so wide, but he’s hardly about to let that stop him from experiencing more _sex_. He relaxes his throat and does his utmost to take McCoy all the way in, every time, so impossibly far that on certain thrusts, it seems like the air through his nose won’t be enough, and he’ll surely pass out. But McCoy holds him by his bangs and keeps him up, so he knows that even should he fall unconscious, his body will at least still be enjoying its _pon farr_ to the fullest. 

At the moment, his nose is buried in McCoy’s dark pubic hair, his lips stretched impossibly open, and his throat struggling to suck. He sucks as much and as hard as he can, hollowing out his cheeks with the effort, and it even earns him the occasional moan from above. He wonders if, should he be good enough, will he perhaps get a shot at McCoy’s ass? He still wants that very much. When McCoy’s firm fingers finally cup Spock’s chin and slide him off, he’s nudged on the cheek by something moist and spongy. Spock turns his head automatically to kiss the tip of Sulu’s cock, and his hair is ruffled affectionately. 

McCoy’s dick never strays while Spock moves on to worshipping Sulu’s strong shaft. McCoy simply keeps rubbing against his face, and Spock, when they get close enough, manages a few times to land kisses that reach them both, to make swipes of his tongue that can catch both. If he could suck them both at once, he’d be content, but of course, they’re both much too large. He burrows in to mouth at Sulu’s heavy balls and to inhale the musk of his crotch, and Sulu chuckles and cups the back of his head. Forgetting his earlier orders in the haze that is his new sex life, Spock lets his arms drop from behind him. He places one hand on Sulu’s leg to steady himself, lightly gripping the fabric, while the other climbs McCoy’s thigh. He shifts around McCoy’s hip to cup McCoy’s ass, and it’s every bit as tight and taut as he thought it would be. Moaning, he sucks one of Sulu’s balls into his mouth and kneads one firm ass cheek through a troublesome uniform until he’s forced to stop. 

He’s pulled back and abruptly slapped across his face, but he simply growls and nuzzles back into McCoy’s crotch. He wanted to fuck McCoy first, but if this irritating resistance continues, perhaps he’ll have to try Sulu instead. Sulu’s ass is every bit as tempting to think about...

Sulu’s already kneeling down behind him, and the next thing he knows, he’s being spanked again. He yelps on the first blow, mostly out of sheer surprise, but before he can protest, McCoy’s cock is stuffed back into his mouth. Sulu hits him again and tells him, “You’re going to follow our orders and think only of _our_ pleasure, or I’m going to spank you so raw that you won’t be able to sit for a week.” Spock can only whimper around his mouthful, and McCoy starts to rock into him, fucking him properly while his already-tender ass is slapped over and over. He can’t count right now, but it seems to go on forever, and he’s intensely relieved when Sulu finally stops and straightens again. Spock pulls off McCoy’s dick to lick at the side of Sulu’s shaft, and he keeps his hands pointedly useless at his sides.

Finally, McCoy tells him, “You can touch our cocks.” And Spock delightedly grips both bases, pumping both in turn while he alternates licking and sucking and kissing between them. He’s realizing that he _is_ thinking of their pleasure, because often, with his kind crew, their pleasure is his pleasure.

Sulu comes first, and as soon as he does, Spock’s there to catch it on his tongue, though he lets plenty of it splash around his face. There’s something about the way the slick globs cling to his skin that makes him glow with delight, and even while it’s spraying over him, Spock eagerly laps at the head to draw out as much as possible. Sulu simply groans appreciatively and lets his hips thrust into Spock’s face. Spock’s own hips are shaking, but he resists humping their legs, because it only earns him more spanking and less cock. 

When Sulu’s spent, Spock turns to milk out McCoy’s release, but he isn’t given the satisfaction. McCoy swats Spock’s hand away and pumps himself to completion, pointing elsewhere. Spock makes a distressed noise and tries to follow, but Sulu holds him back by his collar, and he’s forced to watch as McCoy wastes his seed on the carpet. Once the stream ends and his cock starts to soften, McCoy takes a step back, sighing happily, and orders, “Clean it up, Spock.” Spock just stares. Smirking, McCoy clarifies. “With your mouth. C’mon, lick it up.” Spock still doesn’t move, and Sulu pats the back of his head.

“Remember, we’ll reward you if you’re good.” 

Still, Spock wrinkles his nose. It doesn’t feel natural. He should be in control, but...

He’s learning that the only way to get what he wants is through obedience, and it’s not like he _doesn’t_ want to taste McCoy’s cum. Sulu gives him another encouraging pat, and Spock, grumbling in the back of his throat, gives in. 

He bends down to the carpet and opens his mouth, and he spreads his tongue flat along the ground. The texture of the carpet is rough beneath the sticky puddle of cum, but Spock ignores its bitter taste in favour of the saltier one at the surface. Is this what Jim’s cum tastes like? He doesn’t know if all humans taste alike. It tastes similar to Sulu’s. He still wishes _Jim_ would come to him, and he whines as he licks up the mess on the carpet, wetting the carpet even after most of the cum is gone, making sure he has it all. When he’s done, he lies there and continues to nose into it, mainly because he doesn’t want to look up and give them the satisfaction of his obedience. Or maybe it’s just so he can keep his hips closer to the floor and rub against it properly; he’s _so_ hard again...

“Spock.” He looks up, and McCoy is watching him sternly. “You did good. That should satisfy them.” Who? He doesn’t care. He looks at Sulu to make sense of it, but Sulu’s wandered over to the other side of the bed, and from where Spock’s lying, only his head is visible, next to Chekov’s. They’re talking quietly, but McCoy’s hard voice snatches him back. “Since you’ve been good, you can have Jim—” Spock perks up immediately, lifting off the floor, “—but _just_ his dick. You can suck him off, but you’re _not_ going to touch him, do you understand? If you try anything, we’ll put you back at square one—tie you up and leave you alone.” Which Spock couldn’t bear, not now, and the promise of Jim has him so giddy that he doesn’t even care if he can use his hands or not. 

He scrambles back to his knees and opens his mouth in invitation, urging himself to be _good_ , he’ll be so good. He’ll be the most obedient pet Jim’s ever seen, if he can just have _Jim_ , _finally_. Across the room, Jim’s coming closer, and every step he takes has Spock twitching to close the distance, has him nearly growling again, Jim, Jim, _Jim_...

Jim stops in front of him. Spock fights to be still. Jim gently brushes a hand through Spock’s hair, looking too sad for Spock to fathom. As long as they’re together, there’s nothing in the world for Jim to be sad about. Spock wants to promise he’ll kiss it all better. But he sits where he is and just preens when Jim mumbles, “You’re so good, Spock. So, so good...”

Spock can’t stop himself from leaning closer and pressing a hard, closed mouthed kiss to his mate’s crotch. Jim cups the back of his head, and Spock feels warm as fire.

* * *

Spock is on all fours again, full of McCoy’s cock, being fucked back and forth while Sulu feeds him. He’s allowed to lick little fruits out of Sulu’s palm and drink from the cup Sulu holds for him. It’s hard to do with how harshly he’s being taken, but he’s been performing their tricks all day, and he’s getting better. He wants Jim to feed him, but Jim doesn’t want to do it—doesn’t want to be his _master_. That’s what he told Sulu. Sulu doesn’t mind. Sulu lets him drink until he can’t hold anymore, and then he leaves and lets McCoy pound Spock into the ground, until he’s filled again and pulled roughly out of. He’s left in a shivering heap on the floor, grateful when he’s finally left alone—they don’t seem to notice him, and that means he can touch himself. It isn’t as good as fucking would be, but he’s learned he’s not going to get that, and he contents himself with this. 

He comes in a sticky mess and feels the need to piss. He wonders vaguely if one of them will hold a bucket under him or if he’ll just have to ruin Jim’s carpet. He’s Vulcan. He can hold it for a while. But he doesn’t know how long he’ll be chained like this. He rolls onto his back and watches the four men talk, and he gathers the gist: they’re leaving.

McCoy leads the way out, Sulu and Chekov following, and when Jim goes with them, Spock cries out and rolls back to his hands and knees, straining against the leash, but Jim simply looks back and calls, “I’m just seeing them out. I’ll be right back.” And though Spock trusts his mate, it’s difficult to listen. He pulls against the leash again, and Jim tells him more fiercely, “Stay.”

So he does.

* * *

Eventually, Jim returns. Spock’s a squirming mess of pent up _want_ , but he stills when he sees Jim come back through the doors. He slowly sits up straight and stays that way only by sheer willpower. Jim comes right up to pet him, and Spock, leaning into the touch like a prized sehlat, purrs.

He’s been waiting for this. He knew it would happen. It has to; they’re _one_.

But it still feels like a blessing, and everything Spock has pours into this moment. He’s tired from the rest, but this is what it was all working to. The air feels thick with magic.

Jim asks him quietly, “Who do you belong to?”

There’s no need to think about it. Spock answers instantly, “ _You._ ” His voice is hoarse, raspy from disuse and his well-fucked throat. He shouldn’t have to say it; Jim should just know. Mates belong to one another. But he knows that isn’t what Jim means, and though he can’t understand why it must be only one way, he says what he must to make Jim happy. 

Jim asks, “You’re going to behave, aren’t you? I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s difficult for Spock to manage the words, but he gets out: “I... will behave.” Whatever Jim needs to hear, he’ll say. 

“I never wanted it to be like this. But I don’t... there wasn’t much choice.” He sounds like he wants to apologize, but he doesn’t, not yet. Spock doesn’t want an apology; he just wants Jim. He nuzzles into Jim’s thigh to show that he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t care, everything’s alright. Jim says, “I’m going to release your leash, but... I’ll tie you again if I have to. We don’t have much longer, and you need to be obedient, to follow my lead only. No sudden moves, no aggressive behaviour. ...Okay?”

Spock nods against Jim; yes, yes, whatever Jim likes. The leash is ice cold but burning a trail into his skin that he wants so badly to be free of. It’s stopping him from grabbing Jim and—

But he can’t, won’t do that, and he simply murmurs, “ _Yes._ ”

A moment passes, and then Jim kneels down before him. It takes everything Spock has to be still, when Jim’s head is _finally_ level with his, and all he wants is to smash their lips together. He’s been waiting all day for this. But he looks away instead, trembling with a need he can’t assuage. Jim’s arms wrap around him, and Jim keys in the sequence on his collar that allows the chain to release. It drops from his neck and slithers down his skin, and then he’s simply sitting there, free to run at any time. 

The freedom is appreciated. Spock breathes a shuddering sigh of relief.

Jim, moving slowly as though the slightest thing could set Spock off, wraps warm fingers around his. Spock lets himself be gently tugged upwards, and for the first time in more than a day, he stands on his feet. He stands in front of Jim, holding Jim’s hands, and he knows that he’s squeezing too tightly, but he needs to feel the warmth of Jim’s skin and the pulse racing quickly beneath that. Jim guides him sideways and turns to back Spock onto the bed, until Spock’s legs are pressing into it and he’s falling down to sit on the soft mattress.

The bed. With Jim.

_Yes._

Jim lets go of his hands and tells him, “Strip me. Carefully. Don’t rip anything.”

Spock struggles to stand again in the tiny space between the bed and Jim, nearly salivating. His cock is hard, and when he leans forward, it brushes over the bulge in Jim’s pants. 

He shivers and makes himself comply. It takes him a few seconds to figure out what to do—his brain is hardly functioning. He’s been fucked stupid all day, and sex is still fogging everything, and being near Jim is so intoxicating. But he figures it out, and his fingers brush along the hemlines of Jim’s gold tunic. Spock gathers that and the black undershirt together, and he pulls them up Jim’s chest. Jim lifts his arms to help, and Spock, shuddering in his efforts to not wrench the fabric away, brings the shirts up over Jim’s head. 

He drops them to the floor and begins on Jim’s pants, leaning into the crook of Jim’s neck despite himself. Jim mutters, “Spock,” warningly, but Spock already knows he can’t do anymore. Just breathes in. So close. He pulls down Jim’s fly, and he pushes Jim’s pants and underwear down his body at once. Beautiful...

Jim’s cock, already hard, springs out to meet him, and Jim whispers in his ear, “I’m sorry. It’s just... seeing you naked...” He shouldn’t be sorry. Spock wants to be attractive to his mate. He pushes the clothes down until Jim can step out of them, and Spock closes his eyes, because if he sees Jim like this, he knows he’ll never be able to resist.

He’s lightly pushed backwards, until he’s on the bed again. Falling against it, he crawls back, Jim crawling over him. He lets Jim rearrange him, lay him down properly, cushion his head in the pillows. Last night, this bed was a cavernous, empty expanse, but now it’s small and it’s warm. Jim climbs between his legs, stays draped above him, an arm to either side. Spock leaves his against the mattress, but they aren’t limp, aren’t relaxed. They’re tense and yearning. He’s opened his eyes, and it’s too late; he’s drinking in _everything_.

Jim is _beautiful_. Spock always knew that. But now, with nothing between them, every soft brush of skin and subtle line is a new thrill—the broadness of Jim’s shoulders, the tightness over muscles, the way his hips jut from his sides and the fullness of his thighs, brushing the shells of Spock’s. The golden dusting of hair that traces Jim’s arms, chest, legs, glints in the light, and though this used to be done in the dark, ancient caves of Vulcan, Spock wants that light on, wants to see this. Jim licks his lips as he looks at Spock, wetting them and biting them, so _tempting_. He tells Spock quietly, “I want to make love to my first officer. You need to let me.”

Spock’s lips part, and he murmurs, half automatically, “Yes, Captain.” It feels like that, now. Jim is his captain; he’ll obey. It’ll make things easier. His body screams to flip Jim over, to make love to his mate, but he needs to make his mate happy, and his place is at Jim’s side. Jim smiles tentatively and leans down to press a kiss to Spock’s cheek, too chaste by far. 

Jim presses another kiss to his jaw. One to his chin. Spock’s fingers dig into the sheets beneath him, scrunching up and forming irreparable wrinkles, but he stays still, and Jim mumbles against his lips, “You’re so good for me, Spock.” Spock parts his lips hopefully. If he’s so good, can’t he have a reward?

He gets one, in the form of Jim pressing sweetly into him. Light, at first, and when Spock shoots out his tongue, Jim pulls away, so Spock, grunting in frustration, closes his mouth. He allows chaste, plain kisses, until Jim licks at his bottom lip, and then he’s opening again, opening himself up to Jim, and their tongues meet in the middle. It instantly sends a spark down Spock’s spine; _this_ is what he’s been waiting for, long before _pon farr_ even started. The human contact beyond what Vulcans allow. He wants the Vulcan side too, and he lifts his right hand, but Jim’s fingers land on his wrist, already slipping down, pressing him back. Jim’s index and middle finger fall onto Spock’s and push into him: a hard, firm, Vulcan kiss. Spock rubs their fingers while he kisses Jim’s mouth, and he can’t help but rub their bodies together too, moaning uncontrollably when Jim’s cock brushes along his.

Jim lets him squirm, and for that, he’s grateful. Jim lets him grind them together and kisses him languidly, the other hand ghosting down his sides; Spock parts his legs as soon as Jim’s in the vicinity. He’s already wet, already open, would be for Jim any time. He’s been ready on the bridge before, more than once during their private chess games, even a few times on away missions—he can’t help it—his body yearns for Jim _all the time_ , even if he always thought it very improper. He was so embarrassed.... What a fool he was. Of course Jim loves him back. He should’ve simply climbed into Jim’s lap, pulled Jim down a corridor, pushed Jim down on the couch...

His knees lift on either side of Jim’s body, and he can feel Jim’s smile when those two exploring fingers reach his hole. Jim breaks their kisses to chuckle softly, “Bones wasn’t kidding.” Spock kisses Jim’s cheek; that was nothing. McCoy was simply a warm body to take. Jim is...

“ _Jim_.” Spock wraps one leg over the small of Jim’s back and uses the leverage to grind them harder together, and Jim moans. 

Jim tells him, “Down, boy,” and Spock instantly uncurls his leg and lowers it: open and listening. He’s rewarded with a pleased smile and a nuzzle into the side of his face, and a whispered. “Good, be good for me...”

Spock repeats a hazy, “For you.” All for him. Jim’s cock is sliding away, but it presses at Spock’s hole a minute later, and Jim pulls back to look down at him properly, hovering just above him at arm’s length. The light silhouettes his strong form. 

Jim puts them down with a hushed, “Lights, thirty percent,” and then they’re thrown into a soft glow, more intimate than ever. For a long moment, they just watch one another.

Spock’s ready, but waits, takes the opportunity to truly soak this in, lets Jim have that in return. When his hand lifts off the bed, Jim doesn’t stop him. Spock cups Jim’s face, and for a minute, he’s seized with the urge to meld, to _bond_ them, but he knows he doesn’t have to; they already are. He’s been in Jim’s mind enough; he knows what’s there. He presses up through it, cautiously at first, and Jim gasps, eyes fluttering. Through Spock’s fingertips and his own head, he can feel the presence that is _Jim Kirk_ inside him, always there, a comforting, warm whisper of the man he’s always been tied to. A minute later, he can feel Jim reaching back. Through their bond, they smile at one another. In the physical world, Jim cups Spock’s hand around his face, and Spock melts into the warm, wondrous comfort of being _one with his mate._

Then Jim turns in his grip and kisses his palm, and while Spock’s shivering at the innocent touch, Jim murmurs, “You’re safe now, aren’t you?”

Though Spock doesn’t understand, he nods. He can feel how much it means to Jim for Spock to concede, so he breathes, “Yes.”

“You would do anything for me. Anything at all I asked.”

“Yes.” Without hesitation.

“Your place is by my side, and the Empire is best served by that.”

“Yes, yes.”

Jim gives him such a warm smile and leans down to bring their mouth back together, drawing in his body at the same time, pressing inside. Spock arches into Jim’s chest as he’s breached, and Jim goes so, so very slowly, placing little, lasting kisses all over Spock’s face. Spock’s arms wrap around Jim’s torso, fingers climbing his shoulders, holding him in, until Jim is finally, deeply, all the way inside. Then he rocks his body forward, and Spock goes forward with it, breathing alongside the motion. It isn’t like anything he’s had so far; it’s luxurious and kind, truly _making love_. Jim slips out and slides back in the same way, and he pets the side of Spock’s face and kisses Spock’s lips, while Spock kisses and touches back and simply holds on. 

Even with the fire in his veins screaming to ravage, this is perfection to him. In and out, Jim smoothly takes him, again and again. Jim’s pulses races faster with each passing thrust; Spock can feel it through the bond, hear it in the air. Each movement is a steady, grinding thing, and Spock simply keeps his thighs apart, open to receive what Jim ordains to give him. Some of his fingers knot in Jim’s hair, others tracing over Jim’s skin, slipping through light perspiration. Jim nuzzles into him and murmurs, “You feel _so_ good.” 

“As do you, _t’hy’la_ ,” Spock sighs. He truly does. Jim’s body feels perfect in his arms: a specific shape built just for him, just to fit right here. When Spock presses their temples together, he can feel Jim’s pleasure as much as his. His pleasure is a rippling sea of useless, floundering, _wonderful_ good feelings. It’s so much slower and sweeter and softer than any of the other rounds were, but it’s intensely more powerful, and it overwhelms him just the same, if not more. Jim licks at the shell of his ear and draws up to the point, and Spock doesn’t mind their differences—their love transcends what they are. All they are is one. For the first time since this trial began, Spock feels truly _complete_.

It might be the first time in his life. He’s never felt so much like he _belongs_ as he does right here. Jim mumbles to him over and over again, “Good, Spock, so good...” And Spock doesn’t know if he means the sex or just _Spock_ , the way he feels or his behaviour, but it doesn’t matter. He strokes his mate’s back softly and sighs through the bond that everything will be okay. They’re together now, so nothing can stop them. 

Spock’s orgasm builds quietly but heavily, their burning love a greater factor than anything physical, and he can feel Jim reaching that peak with him. They rock together for as long as they can, so very long, but Spock can’t go forever, not like this, and Jim is human, strained, burning up in his arms. He knows he won’t make it much longer, and he breathes in Jim’s ear, “Jim, _Jim_...” He’s kissed and loved. 

He spills himself across Jim’s chest without being touched, without being told. It’s a gentle, sticky-sweet thing: a wash of lingering ecstasy and a lull of hard-earned relief. It lasts longer than it should, and he bubbles more than sprays between them, aware that he’s making a mess but not moving; he’s obediently doll-like in Jim’s arms, because he knows, can feel, that Jim wants him that way. Perhaps not another time, but for now, this is how he’s meant to be. Jim rides him through it, until he’s being filled the same way, slow and steady. Jim comes inside him with a gorgeous moan that makes Spock’s toes curl, and Spock squeezes Jim tighter through it. Finally having Jim’s seed inside him is all he ever wanted. Jim becomes a limp, melted mess in his arms, crushing him down to the mattress with a released “oof” and the sudden heaviness of post-coital bliss. 

Then they’re still. For a long time, they simply lie like that, the lights dim and the room warm and reeking of sex, Jim’s breathing slowly evening out in his ear. For the first time since the madness began, Spock isn’t hard; he finally feels satisfied, and he basks in that, taking in the simple, pleasant little feelings of just having Jim around him. 

Eventually, Jim mutters sleepily, “You should probably have a shower.”

Confused by the wording, Spock restates, “We?”

But Jim shakes his head, chuckling. “No, I’m... I’m pretty exhausted.” Pulling back enough for his wrinkled nose to be visible, Jim explains, “But you really need one.” Spock’s mouth twists into a frown.

But he does need to go to the washroom. He touches his collar, though the leash isn’t there. He’s free to. Jim nods towards the bathroom, and Spock, hesitantly, squirms out from beneath Jim’s body. 

He looks at Jim, and he climbs off the bed, and it feels strange to be alone: at the moment, it isn’t his natural state. Jim watches him. His mate told him to shower. 

So he does, only able to because of that permission, that request. Jim’s presence is still inside him, drifting contentedly about his mind. In the mouth of the washroom, he turns to ask, “You will be here?”

Jim smiles. “Right here.” He spreads out in the bed. Right there. Waiting for Spock to return, for the two of them to cuddle up together and face the night as _one._

Spock disappears into the washroom, aching, for once, in a pleasant way.


	5. Aftermath

The morning is very, very _strange_.

It comes back to him slowly, like in a dream, the hazy memories of what he’s done, of how he’s been. The person he is beneath that. Or rather, the person he was, before the madness struck, and the creature it turned him into. It’s a confusing muddle that he doesn’t have the strength to sort through, and he becomes dimly aware of all the little aches and pains in his body, easily ignored with a few Vulcan techniques. ...Except for the slow burn in the channel of his ass, which is being exacerbated each moment that passes. 

Something thick and satisfying is slipping in and out of him, and Spock moans as he comes to, clenching his ass around it. It does feel good, once he lets himself feel it, opens up to the pleasure of being filled. Someone grunts above him, and Spock instantly recognizes the voice— _Jim._ Spock clenches his ass tighter and leans up, his back hitting Jim’s chest, just as bare as his. They’re both naked and slick with sweat, Spock’s hair still damp from the shower last night. The sheets are almost glued to his body. He’s on his front, and Jim’s lying on top of him. Jim has one arm to either side of him. Jim is... Jim is...

 _Making love_ to him. Spock croons as he carefully lowers back down, face turning in the pillow, shame already setting in to mingle with the happiness. It feels good, so good, to have Jim inside him, but he isn’t what he was yesterday. He isn’t cured, he knows that, but he’s better, and he can grasp basic concepts, and he knows this isn’t right. Jim buries deep inside him and flattens along his back, pausing to nip at his shoulder. His cheek’s kissed next, then his ear is caught between two dull teeth, and Jim licks over the bite a moment later. He nuzzles into the side of Spock’s face and mutters blearily, “’M sorry... Bones... Bone said sex would still be necessary... for at least another day...” He gasps again as Spock twitches, shifting his walls along Jim’s sensitive shaft, determined to bring his _t’hy’la_ as much pleasure as possible. “I just...” Jim tries to continue, pausing, and somehow, Spock knows he’s licking his lips. “I figured it’d be easier if I... well, if I just started instead of... making you submit to me...”

Spock, almost wincing in his embarrassment, understands. Now, he has the capacity to understand. He was foolish for the past two days. For the past three, to include his escape attempts under the Empire. Very, very foolish. Jim did only what he had to. Spock understands that. Mostly. A part of him still wants...

He doesn’t say anything. He feels guilty for it. He shouldn’t, shouldn’t feel at all, but he does, and that’s what it is, and he knows the fever hasn’t passed. If he says he can think, will Jim stop? He doesn’t want Jim to stop. The _pon farr_ is still on him, and he has his mate, and no matter what he thinks, that’s all he wants. Jim... Jim atop him, inside him, holding him and kissing the side of his face...

Jim murmurs, “Good boy,” and Spock feels dirty and pleasant. Illogical. He shudders anyway and lifts his ass back into Jim’s cock, taking another torturously slow slide. Jim’s fucking him deep and properly. Jim is the good one. Jim is so very, very good to him. Jim _bought_ him. That still makes him reel. He could’ve been halfway across the galaxy by now, tag-teamed by Klingons or made to act as an Orion’s footstool. And instead, the feeling of _Jim_ is all over him, and he doesn’t even care about the others—they were light, they are loyal, they won’t ever speak of this, he’s sure, if he tells Jim as much, and Jim did what he had to, Jim _protected_ him.

Feeling loved is half of what makes his cock fill. The rest is all Jim’s body and the wondrous way Jim takes him. He’s hard so quickly, and he starts to rub himself into the mattress, humping the sheets as Jim humps him. He growls and knows he isn’t that far from an animal, not yet. Jim’s cheek presses against his, sweaty and hot, and Jim moans, “ _Spock_ ,” so _filthy._

Jim comes inside him with a beautiful cry, and Spock growls and tightens, taking it with too much pleasure. He wants to keep every last drop inside him. His mate’s seed. The madness grips him again, and Spock comes a second later from the process of Jim still milking everything out. But Spock spills into the sheets instead of against his lover, and that makes him whimper. His own cum is sticky against his stomach. He darts a hand back suddenly, grabbing Jim’s hip and holding it still—he doesn’t want to be pulled out of. He wants to stay plugged, keep everything inside.

But Jim gently pulls his hand away, and Spock’s too dizzy to fight. He still whines when Jim slips out, but his heart leaps a minute later when Jim rolls off and lands beside him, turning, so very close. Jim reaches out to pet Spock’s cheek, and Spock nuzzles into it, kissing Jim’s palm. 

He’s so _in love_ that it almost hurts. His _pon farr_ is switching stages. He shifts closer to Jim and holds the back of Jim’s head, softly thumbing away gold strands, and he wraps his legs around Jim’s and kisses Jim’s face. Jim lets him play and murmurs, “I’m so sorry.” He holds onto Spock’s wrist like a comfort mechanism—an anchor to hold them together. Spock doesn’t understand. There’s nothing to be sorry for. 

“We’ll talk when you’re better.” Jim says. “I really am sorry. So sorry.” He cups Spock’s face, and his blue eyes are brilliant and painfully expressive, even in the half-lighting of the ‘morning.’ There’s a hurt in his eyes that Spock doesn’t want to see, and Spock shakes his head, but Jim continues, “You have no idea how much you mean to me. I’m so sorry.”

“It is okay.” Jim looks almost surprised at Spock’s words. They aren’t shaky. Not like yesterday. He repeats, “It is okay.” Then he buries his face in Jim’s shoulder and clutches Jim tighter, wraps his arms around Jim’s body and pulls in close, holding Jim so fiercely. It hits him belatedly that Jim’s trembling. Spock kisses him and holds him and mumbles over and over, “It is okay.”

* * *

None of the others return. That’s the way Spock wants it. He curls up with Jim on the couch, legs entwined in a very non-dignified fashion, and he lets Jim rearrange them, rearrange _him_. Subtle ways that Jim can express control without it feeling like _dominating_ him; it’s simply his captain having preferences that he has no opinion on and therefore bends to. But it’ll look good when he’s probed for obedience, and he’s slowly realizing how vital that is. 

He’s not strong enough to play chess yet. Not mentally. Jim strokes a hand down his bare leg and asks how he feels. Jim’s quarters are warm for him, Jim dressed and him wearing only a pair of Jim’s boxers. He murmurs, “Better, thank you.”

“I’m sorry for taking advantage,” Jim says for the millionth time. 

“Your reasoning was correct,” Spock assures him. “It was easier with you than it would have been with anyone else.”

“I’m sorry about the others... they won’t tell anyone; they’ve all promised. They know their careers are on the line if they do.”

Perhaps it’s just the lingering madness, but he finds he doesn’t mind. “I understand your choice, Captain. And I am glad for it, in the sense that I do not think of you as my master.”

The arm around his shoulders tightens, and Jim says, “Good.” But his eyes look worried, as they should; for the moment, Spock is in that space where how he thinks of Jim is critical. He couldn’t bear to be deemed unfit and sent away. Knowing that, he forces himself to slip out of Jim’s arms, and he kneels on the carpet instead. Jim stays on the couch, now stiff instead of elegantly lounging like before, but he sighs when Spock simply nuzzles into his legs. Spock holds them and rests his cheek on Jim’s knees. He will be good.

He will do whatever he must to remain with Jim, and when he looks at Jim, he makes it clear in his eyes that he places no blame on Jim. The fault is solely of the Empire. Then he looks aside and wipes even that from his mind; he must be submissive and workable. 

Jim threads soft fingers through his hair, and he shivers. “Are you hungry?”

Spock’s hungry for things he can’t ask for. But he nods anyway, seizing an opportunity to distract his body from its urges. Jim’s sock-covered foot runs along his thigh. He drops one hand to his own waist and idly traces over the smooth fabric of Jim’s boxers. They’re ever-so-slightly loose on him, ridiculously soft and a little cool. They smell like Jim. He remembers Jim putting them on him, and he shudders again, turning to bury his face in Jim’s legs.

But Jim pushes to his feet and gently leaves Spock’s side. “I’ll feed you.” Out of his hands? Normally, Spock would find the idea unacceptable, but now, the thought of licking stray juices from Jim’s fingers makes Spock moan in delight.

In an effort to appease the cruel master they both serve, Spock crawls after Jim on all fours.

* * *

Spock’s left in a designated room. Jim remains last, though security stands outside. Spock’s wrapped in Jim’s bathrobe, and Jim strokes the side of his face and kisses his cheek and mumbles in his ear, “I’m sorry. I... I really _love_ you.”

Spock shudders but knows. In a way, he’s always known. This might be their last opportunity to ever say it. It might be wiser for Spock to say something more subservient, but instead, he whispers back, “I love you too.”

Then Jim kisses him chastely on the lips and is gone.

And Spock is left horribly alone for the first time in days. Being separated from his mate makes him light-headed. Tomorrow, he may be able to return to duty. But today...

He sits on the floor next to the chair at the lone table in the room, grey and generic and cold. Spock’s cold. He wraps the robe’s edges tighter around himself and tries to summon images of the days past into his mind, of being bent over backwards and made to lick McCoy’s feet. He fills his head with his own undoing. He thinks of Chekov rimming him on Sulu’s request, of lapping at a water dish like a domesticated sehlat. It makes his cheeks turn green, but he does what he must—anything to remain with _Jim_. He thinks of Jim most of all. Of how he opened for Jim, of how he bowed at Jim’s feet, at how he’s _always_ been at Jim’s disposal, completely and utterly. If he’s allowed to remain here, he will continue to serve the Empire’s greatest captain in any way that captain wishes. 

When the door opens to admit a Vulcan and two guards, Spock’s breath catches in his throat. He straightens up and bows his head and is ignored. The Vulcan sweeps over to the chair, the two security members waiting by the door. 

He knows his time wasn’t as thorough or harsh as other Vulcans will have had. But he bowed to four men, and he willingly bows now, and he thinks that must count for something. He’s tame. Not a danger. The Empire can handle him. The Vulcan in the chair reaches down for him and pets the back of his neck, and Spock, completely unsure of what to do, does nothing. 

His head is gently tugged back by the hair. He’s forced to crane his neck so far backwards that it aches, but he’s left to hold it there. Fingers splay across his face, and, without a word, his mind is plunged into. 

He’s tested, and only the thought of _Jim_ holds him back from fighting it. 

He closes his eyes and submits himself to the Empire: body, soul, and mind. ...For if he isn’t returned to Jim, none of that will matter.

* * *

A night alone did Spock little good. He didn’t sleep. Simply meditated. Showered several times. Intends on more meditation. There are things that will take him a long time to deal with, but hopefully, he will make peace with what he’s done before the next _pon farr_ arrives.

Meditation is painful but vital. He is a Vulcan. Again, logic dictates what he must do. There is no sense crying over what has happened, what must have happened. When he considers all the scenarios, his circumstances went as well as he could’ve hoped. When he closes his eyes, he pulls himself from it, and he hovers back, objectively watching events unfold, detaching and purging out emotion.

At first, the relief is overwhelming. In the morning, it’s a bigger relief to return to more of himself, to be able to lock up the feelings and not be drowned in the reeling shame and pleasure. He’s practiced mental disciplines all his life, like any good Vulcan, and he uses them now more than ever. Now, when the bridge doors open, he’s able to meet Jim’s eyes with only the smallest hitch of breath, though parts of him still crawl to rejoice, other parts shattering.

Seeing Jim sets his body on fire for half an instant, but he controls himself. Control is everything. It’s his again. 

McCoy is standing by Jim’s chair. Irrational jealousy. It doesn’t matter. Jim is still his, he knows that. They need to talk about it. Not that he wants to. He can _feel_ that Jim is still his. They haven’t properly bonded or melded for good yet, but he... he knows.

The doctor watches him with a strained neutrality. He is a good man, Spock knows. Better than most in the Empire. Spock’s lips tighten automatically, but the doctor says nothing more than, “Glad to have you back, Spock.”

Sulu and Chekov are both looking at him, twisted around from the helm and navigation console. Once Spock nods, they smile faintly and turn back around. An understanding. That’s good. Despite the need, he has no desire to discuss any of this. Especially with anyone but Jim.

He almost stops at Jim’s chair, but instead, he forces himself to keep walking. Just like he would any other day. Like he did a week ago, like he’ll have to do tomorrow, and every day that follows.

He sits at the science station, peripherally aware that none of the others are watching him; it’s just another day on the bridge. He feels conspicuous, like everyone can see the stains beneath his uniform, but the bridge is tight and efficient, like always. Jim will have explained his absence. Taken care of him. More mental discipline. He needs to focus on just his panel. On his job. Find solace in that. He must be as efficient as them. He is a Vulcan; he should be more so.

It’s more difficult to concentrate than he’d like to admit. He sets his station for a self-diagnostic, simply to monitor any changes that may have occurred in his absence. Getting back to work is... strange.

But good.

A comfort.

On the next time he turns around, Jim’s still watching him. Jim’s face is schooled: a proper captain. But it holds everything Spock needs. Spock struggles not to colour, and Jim smiles softly, turning back to the viewscreen.

* * *

Spock’s never been so relieved to reach the end of his shift.

In some ways, it’s nice to get back to the familiar routine, one that doesn’t require an emotional upheaval and the unthreading of his very being. In other ways, it’s so very difficult to be on _display_ after everything that’s happened. He tells himself most of them don’t know, and the ones that do don’t matter; it was for his benefit. It was simply something that must be done. In the grand scheme of the Empire, Vulcans certainly are not the most suffering species.

And now it’s over. All over. For another seven years. His father would scold him for dwelling on the past; it’s hardly logical.

He strategically waits until most of the staff on beta shift have switched, waiting to enter the turbolift on his own. He’s only partially surprised when Jim steps in at the last moment, the doors shutting to seal them in together. Spock stands at attention.

The turbolift travels half a floor, and Jim taps an automatic stopping button that jerks them to a sudden halt. Spock, now bone-straight with his arms behind his back, glances sideways. Looking at Jim, in some ways, is a deep hole to fall into. But he needs to be able to look at his captain without falling to pieces for _his mate_ , so he may as well start now.

Jim is... Jim is still his mate. He sniffs the air subtly, and he knows that. The others were tools to keep them together. Jim is...

Jim looks at him, full of an anxiety that he can understand all too well, and asks, “Are you alright?”

Which is a ridiculous question, because Spock is neither particularly well nor irreparably damaged. He simply is as he must be and nothing less. Shattered by the days past, far better than then. To dissect such sentiments will get him nowhere, and the last thing he wants to be right now is irrational. 

But for Jim’s sake more than his, he struggles back from his fierce grip on himself and answers tightly, “Yes.” It isn’t quite a lie. It’s a relative state of being. His health is in decent condition, and his career is no longer in jeopardy. (And he has _Jim._ ) He’s better than could be expected. 

Jim still looks nervous and, licking plush lips, asks quietly, “Do you mind if I follow you to your quarters?”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. His hands might be shaking, ever so slightly. He turns his body enough to keep them out of Jim’s view. He should’ve... he should’ve thought more about this. The little things. How he would discuss this with Jim. Must they discuss it at all? Can’t they simply both _know_ that Vulcans don’t speak of such things?

_But of course they are t’hy’la. They’ve always been._

He was just trying not to think about it. 

Spock hesitates for an answer. After a while, he’s left it too long to give one. Can he have more time? Illogical. If he asked for it, Jim would give it to him, but what good would that do? The circumstances will be no different later. What are they now, officially, if Jim doesn’t know, if Jim forces himself apart? Spock’s still connected to Jim. He never stopped being. The depth of it is just now... complicated. It is possible that after seeing Spock reduced to _nothing_ Jim would no longer want him. But when he looks at Jim, he knows that isn’t the case. Still, he trembles harder.

And Jim says, “We seemed to skip dinner and go right to the sex.” Spock fights not to wince at Jim’s word, and Jim frowns before continuing. It’s callous, but it’s human. Spock shouldn’t flinch at a retelling of the truth of what happened. Perhaps it isn’t so much what happened as his captain seeing him as worthless that bothers him, but it was necessary. Jim says slowly, cautiously, “...I’d like to have that dinner, if... if you’d be amenable. That is, if you want to.”

Of course he wants to.

He turns his head and looks at the wall instead of directly at Jim, which helps him fractionally, enough to keep standing. He can’t fall apart; he’s supposed to be better. Maybe this is his half-human blood, making him too weak to be resilient. He says as tonelessly as he can, “That is a human ritual that is not necessary.”

He hears a soft chuckle. It’s... pleasant. He does want Jim to be happy.

“It’s good to have you back, Spock.” A pause, and a sigh. “I... I guess I just want to know where we stand.”

Spock looks at Jim and opens his mouth. He stops at Jim’s blue eyes, more intense than he expected, harder to resists. He struggles to rein that in. A deep breath.

He says, completely and honestly, “I meant what I said during my _pon farr_.” And he would never say that to anyone else. 

But Jim _is_ his t’hy’la. He knows that. That’s not going to change. 

The Empire will always try to tear them apart, but it’s not going to change.

Jim nods slowly and says, with a hint of a frown, “I know.” Then, “I love you, Spock.” Spock’s chest tightens, something fierce in him clawing back to the surface, ripping his control—“Even if you understand all my reasons, I want you to know that I’m deeply sorry for what happened to you. And for my part in it. And I understand if you need time or space, or... I just had to check in with you. But whatever you need, no matter what time or circumstance, I’m here for you. Regardless of if you feel the same way or not. But I think you do. I felt something that didn’t change as you got better. And amidst all the other chaos you went through, I don’t want you to be confused about how much you mean to me.”

Spock... Spock nods.

His mouth has gone dry, and somewhere along the lines, his arms have fallen to hang by his sides. He wants to be strong, to return to everything as normal, but he wants Jim too, and he feels strange and overwhelmed and a little numb, and he says quietly, head buzzing, “I would like that dinner.” Jim smiles, eyes creasing with it.

Jim reaches for his hand. Spock takes it without hesitation. 

He _knows_ Jim will always be there for him. This just proves it. He mumbles anyway, “In seven years... you will...” But he can’t say it.

“We’ll talk about it,” Jim insists. “Beforehand. We’ll know just what you want to do, and we’ll do it. It can be just me, if you like. Or we can hire someone else. _Whatever_ you need. And...” here he smiles ruefully, chuckling once, “...if you want three days to dominate and own _me_ , you’re welcome to it. I’ll take them off. Even share me, get an audience, I don’t care. Whatever helps you. It’s only fair. I’ll be yours. I already am, but I... just, whatever you need.”

Spock would never do that. He can’t deny that it sounds horribly appealing. Maybe it would be cathartic for Jim. For both of them. His fingers tighten in Jim’s grip. He might still be shaking. 

Jim’s right. Deny it as he might, they _do_ need to talk about this.

Over dinner.

Then perhaps very equal lovemaking. 

He reaches past Jim’s shoulder and sets the turbolift to move, and Jim thumbs the back of his hand as if to say: it’ll be alright.

He lets out a breath he’s been holding for too long. 

He has Jim. He’ll be alright. 

Jim squeezes his hand.

He mutters a thick and too-heartfelt, “ _Thank you_.”


End file.
